


The Last Years of the Fourth Era: Scattered Seeds

by KimChangRa



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimChangRa/pseuds/KimChangRa
Summary: A collection of one-shots and short stories set within the timeline of The Last Years of the Fourth Era (LYFE).





	1. Alpha (Part I)

**Author's Note:**

> I mentioned a while back that I was looking into making some side stories and one-shots in my TESV series. This is where I plan on putting them all. Some of them will stand alone, others might have overarching plotlines—but all of them will have some connection to my entries in The Last Years of the Fourth Era.
> 
> Because of that, each update in this collection is automatically assumed to be rated M, in keeping with the source material—and there WILL be spoilers. I'll be putting author's notes at the beginning of every installment so as to let you know what ought to be read first, if anything. This won't be a fanfic with frequent updates, I will say that—nor is it unlikely that it will update out of order—it's more of a collection of smaller plots that I felt didn't quite have the length or the content to qualify for their own entry.

* * *

**The story below takes place after** **_The Last Years of the Fourth Era: First Seed_ ** **, and is presented in two parts. Prior reading is recommended so as to avoid any confusion or spoilers, but not explicitly required.**

**And before anyone asks: yes, I do see the irony in releasing this during a chaotic election season. Would that it was solved so easily; that's** **_all I'm saying about that_ ** **.**

**Hope you enjoy! – K**

* * *

_"_ _You Nords and your bloody sense of honor."_

– Quote attrib. to Gen. Tullius, Military Governor of Skyrim (d. 4E 203?)

* * *

I

_Whiterun_

_5_ _th_ _of Rain's Hand, 4E 203_

_'_ _Background: Ulfric first came to our attention during the First War Against the Empire, when he was taken as a prisoner of war during the campaign for the White-Gold Tower. Under interrogation, we learned of his potential value (son of the Jarl of Windhelm) and he was assigned as an asset to the interrogator, who is now First Emissary Elenwen. He was made to believe information obtained during his interrogation was crucial in the capture of the Imperial City (the city had in fact fallen before he had broken), and then allowed to escape. After the war, contact was established and he has proven his worth as an asset. The so-called "Markarth Incident" was particularly valuable from the point of view of our strategic goals in Skyrim, although it resulted in Ulfric becoming generally uncooperative to direct contact._

_'_ _Operational Notes: Direct contact remains a possibility (under extreme circumstances), but in general the asset should be considered dormant. As long as the civil war proceeds in its current indecisive fashion, we should remain hands-off. … A Stormcloak victory is also to be avoided, however, so even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed … '_

Varulf Blackmane could read no more.

He knew the words by heart—he'd practically memorized them by the time he'd arrived back from Winterhold that fateful day. He did not return to Windhelm, where he knew Aela was waiting for him in Hjerim.

No, he was in Jorrvaskr instead, hunched over the old desk that had once belonged to his predecessor, the former Harbinger of the Companions. He'd made sure to keep a candle burning there every day since Kodlak's untimely passing. The latest candle was now beginning to burn low; it was already sputtering, throwing shadows all over the place—across the wear and tear that lined the Harbinger's face, from thick black brows to thick black beard.

None of it convinced Varulf that every word he'd read was false—there could no longer be any doubt. Ulfric had been lied to, betrayed by the Thalmor. He'd been helping those thrice-damned elves win the war for them, and he didn't even know it.

A knock on his door distracted him suddenly: three taps, small but forceful—only one person could knock like that. "Come in!" Varulf called out—his voice was suddenly rough and scratchy, as if he hadn't used it in days.

The first he saw of Aela the Huntress was her flaming red hair, and the tattooed, worried face beneath it. Varulf wanted to get up and embrace her, and tried to stand up, but his entire body felt as if it was made of lead. He could not muster the willpower to even get up from his chair.

"They told me you'd come back here," Aela said, after embracing him in his seat. She had not sounded this grave since Kodlak's funeral. "I was waiting for you for one whole week, Varulf."

 _A whole week?_ Varulf only barely registered the words. _Had it really been that long?_

"I'm sorry, love," he croaked. "I've just been … " The Nord heaved a massive sigh. "I've had a lot on my mind, lately."

"Is it Kodlak again?"

Varulf shook his head. "No … no." _Should I tell her?_ he was wondering in his mind all the while. _Can I trust her to give me an answer?_

He swallowed. "Aela," he said hesitantly, "has there ever been a moment when you wondered why you fight?"

"Of course not," said his wife. "We in the Companions fight for honor and glory. There's no better way to be a Nord than with proper Nord steel!"

Varulf laughed—but not for long. "That's not what I meant," he said. "Have you ever come back from a battle, wondering if you did the right thing?"

He heard Aela exhale from above him. "This is exactly why Kodlak chose not to take sides in that civil war," she said. "Leave the wars to the men and women who want to fight them. But there's some people who can't—or maybe they don't want to. Someone has to tell the people who don't fight—wives, children, or whoever they may be—that someone's still looking out for them while soldiers fight for the freedom of where they live."

A pause. "Running off to join the Stormcloaks was not something I'd have expected from a Harbinger," Aela went on. "Neither were a lot of the others. I know Athis still doesn't like talking to you unless he's got no other choice."

Varulf winced. The lone Dunmer—and by extension, the sole elf—in all of Jorrvaskr, had not taken Varulf's decision to join the civil war well. Though he was respected within the Companions, other Nords in the province were not quite so welcoming to people whom they believed to be Dominion spies—and Athis, however privately, had viewed this as a slight against him since.

"There's no need for the Companions to go out fighting threats to provinces and holds," Aela was saying. "We pick fights, take care of animal problems, that sort of thing—we help the little people do the things they can't."

Varulf grunted. "Yes, well, sometimes those 'threats to provinces and holds' have a habit of stomping on the little people," he replied.

Neither spoke for a few long moments. "I heard from Olfrid in passing that the Moot's to take place at high sun this Fredas—the Blue Palace," Aela said. "Vignar issued the summons this afternoon."

 _Fredas_ , Varulf dimly thought. _Two days from now_.

Aela's voice was strangely quiet. "You'll have to go?" It didn't sound like a question.

Either way, Varulf knew she was right. As one of Ulfric's right-hand men, it would be a disservice for him _not_ to go—even if the Moot was just a formality at this point. With Tullius dead, and Elisif remaining the Jarl of Solitude, there would be none left to challenge his accession to High King. Anyone who thought otherwise had a death wish.

 _However …_ He glanced at the open book on his desk. "Aye," he said with a sigh, marking his page and closing the dossier without a word. "I'll have to leave tomorrow morning." There was no turning back from it, now the words had left his mouth. From here on out, it would be unto him to declare for Ulfric as the rightful ruler of Skyrim.

He rose from his chair at last, feeling his joints creak from today's lack of use. "Wake me up early," he said through a monumental yawn, preparing to turn in for the night. "I'll need a horse to get to Solitude—probably a carriage."

He heard Aela mumble a reply as she disappeared into her own quarters to dress for bed—but Varulf's mind was already too far elsewhere to really listen. Even as he stripped off his armor, he could feel the words of the dossier weighing him down—sapping his strength, both man's and beast's alike, until it felt as though his very soul was being crushed by the damning document.

Varulf lay there, in the stuffed bed of his predecessor—which now felt for all the world like one of those gods-forsaken stone beds in Markarth—until the room was gradually shrouded in darkness. As the last vestige of light faded from the room, he dimly remembered he'd forgotten to replace Kodlak's candle—but his mind was entire realms removed from Mundus now; he was burdened with a problem that he doubted even the old Harbinger could have counseled him on.

For the first time since he was a young lad chopping wood for his da in Bruma, not yet of age, Varulf Blackmane, the "Wolf of Whiterun", the Harbinger of the Companions—and the Second Stormblade to Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm—was fearful of his own future, the future he himself had helped to build.

_Had it all been a lie?_

Stormcloak though he was, Varulf could not deny what he'd read—and he now knew he was in a most unenviable position because of it. On the one hand, he could let this ugly truth lie, and let Ulfric take the throne—but in so doing, instill an unknowing mouthpiece of the Thalmor. On the other, he could bring that truth to light, expose the Jarl of Windhelm as a fraud—and immediately be branded a liar and executed for treason.

 _No matter what I do_ , he thought, cursing the Daedra under his breath, _I will be a betrayer._

* * *

He did not hear Aela come to bed later on—his dreams were fraught with howling wolves, snarling beasts, and the faces of the shield-brothers and -sisters he'd come to know, both in the Companions and in the Stormcloak army.

Varulf rarely ever enjoyed a peaceful night's rest these past few years; such was the price to pay for the gift shared by the Circle: the elite fighters within the Companions. Aela was one of the Circle as well, and one of the few who truly reveled in the power the beast-blood granted her. Varulf would often accompany her on hunts outside the city; there was a tunnel underneath the Skyforge, leading into a sluice below the eastern wall of Whiterun, through which the couple would sneak out of without any city guards being the wiser.

The twins, Vilkas and Farkas, were different; Varulf had often seen Vilkas, the brains of the two, looking downcast in his private moments. He thought he might know why; when he had pored through Kodlak's journal, Varulf had read of how the young man had felt betrayed by the true extent of the price that had to be paid by the Circle. Farkas, on the other hand, was more of a bruiser than a reader; he seemed most unsure of himself, but Varulf knew, as again Kodlak once had, that he would eventually be swayed to follow in the footsteps of his more analytical brother.

As for Varulf himself … there were times when he truly had gloried in letting the beast inside him surface during the night—whether on hunts with Aela, the nights of passion they shared in the moonlight over a fresh kill … even in the vengeance he'd exacted upon the Silver Hand, who'd murdered Kodlak simply because for what he was. His time among more disciplined men, however—from a lowly Unblooded to a Stormblade general in Jarl Ulfric's army—had made Varulf more aware that that side of him could never be accepted among people like _them_. None of them, not even Ralof, who shared a special friend with him, one whom the most powerful people in the province would kill to—

Varulf sat up abruptly, not even bothering to acknowledge the grumbles of Aela, still half-asleep herself. A thought had just occurred to him—perhaps the last hope he might have of finding his way out of this quandary.

He rose out of bed, pausing only to kiss Aela's brow, and went to put on his armor.

* * *

_The College of Winterhold_

_6_ _th_ _of Rain's Hand_

The carved face stared back at him. Unblinking. Unmoving.

Varulf had seen the face that lay beyond precisely _one time_ in his entire life; that had been during the incident with the Black Worm cult earlier this year, which had been responsible for several high-profile casualties in Skyrim. The list was a damning one indeed: Idgrod Ravencrone, Jarl of Morthal and reputed Seer; Erikur of Solitude, rumored to be next in line for the title of the city's Thane—and it had nearly included Varulf himself as well, were it not for the man sitting opposite him this morning.

The rumors had surfaced a little more than a week ago; they spoke of horrible injuries, battle scars that would have killed a lesser man. But the Dragonborn did not walk among men. If the soul he possessed was not proof enough of this, then his list of accomplishments—his besting of the dragon Alduin, the treacherous Thalmor Ancano, and Talos only knew who or what else—was more than enough to suffice.

But as brave and powerful as the Dragonborn was, he was all the more foolish for it.

Though he was, by all rights, a living Nordic legend, the newest Arch-Mage of Winterhold had outright refused any summons from Jarl Ulfric concerning his allegiance in the civil war that had only recently come to its conclusion in Solitude. This had been tempered slightly when the Dragonborn had shown him a large amount of unopened letters that bore the sigil of the Imperial Legion, and the seal of the late General Tullius. After all, the Dragonborn was more than just a man, and therefore above all their petty affairs.

Wasn't he?

Ulfric did not think so. Neither did Galmar Stone-Fist, his right-hand man … and apparently, neither did the _esteemed General_. They believed he was a hero of the people—and that as such, he was honor-bound to assist them in their respective campaign.

Up until recently, Varulf had not been so sure of this himself. But his da had always used to say, "Never meddle in the affairs of dragons." And there were other reasons why Varulf believed the Dragonborn to be mad.

One of those reasons was why he was currently sitting across from the most renowned dragonslayer in history.

"I wasn't expecting to see you back so soon," the moonstone mask of Grimnir Torn-Skull said with maddening calm, as if he had no idea what was going on in Varulf's head. "It has only been … a week since we first spoke, yes?"

Varulf found himself wishing he'd kept his heavy fur-and-mail cloak on, and perhaps worn something more adapted to the weather instead of his suit of pitted Atmoran steel. The Arch-Mage's quarters were on the topmost tower of the College of Winterhold, which itself was precariously perched on the Sea of Ghosts. On a good day, this tower was drafty as Coldharbour and moaned like the Quagmire.

This was not one of those good days.

"You know why I'm here, Dragonborn," he growled, doing his best to keep his teeth from chattering, "and it wasn't for the small talk. The pleasantries are … appreciated, but we have much to discuss."

Grimnir did not move. "Do tell."

Varulf chose his words carefully. "I want to know why you would give me this … _thing_ — _now_ , of all times," he began, gesturing towards the folio on the table, glaring at it like some evil thing. "Why not at High Hrothgar—the peace talks there, two years ago? You could have exposed that bitch Elenwen for what she was!"

"And your entire rebellion would have been revealed as a sham of the Thalmor," Grimnir said patiently. "For which lives on both sides were lost, and will never be brought back. The wounds had already been opened, Varulf. Releasing that dossier would never have closed them completely. And that's not getting into the _other_ reason—the one why I suspect I found you, of all people, back on my doorstep."

Varulf narrowed his eyes. "Ulfric. You think this challenges his claim to Torygg's throne, don't you?"

Grimnir coughed. "Let's look at this from a different perspective," he sighed. Before Varulf could object, he carried on, "What did you know of Ulfric before all this? What were you told? What did you learn?"

Varulf thought this over for some time before he gave his reply. "He was a true son of Skyrim—even when he fought for the Empire during the War of the . He didn't just belong to his country, but to his _people_ as well. He believed the Empire was only a shadow of what it once was—before the Forsworn … before the Thalmor. Back then, I was too young to understand what he meant; I was only a lad then, seven months out of my da's shack in Bruma. My head was still ringing with his words about 'honor' and 'glory.' But the way Ulfric said it all made me listen to him. It made a lot of us listen to him."

"Mm." Grimnir clicked his tongue. "Charisma's one of those attributes that you can find on both sides of the scale, Varulf. You can find it in people like Ysgramor or Martin Septim—or in people like Mannimarco or Jagar Tharn. But what about Ulfric?" he asked. "Where does he fall on this scale?"

Varulf found himself spluttering incoherently for a few moments. "You are talking about two completely different kinds of people!" he said in a strangled yell. "Nine's sake, Ysgramor and Mannimarco are practically black and white! They have nothing in common with each other—let alone with Ulfric!"

"They still inspire people to this day," said Grimnir coolly. "Entire _cultures_ , even. Think of them what you will, Varulf, but even their staunchest of detractors cannot deny how inspirational those men were in their day."

He folded his hands on the table. "Do you believe Ulfric has the potential to carry that same sense of inspiration as High King of Skyrim?"

Varulf thought—and thought. He had always prided himself on being a man who led from the front of the lines; his prowess with a battleaxe had earned the praise of every son and daughter of Skyrim he'd fought alongside; from the footsoldiers he'd fought alongside in Whiterun, to Ralof, his family and friends—and eventually even to Ulfric and Galmar themselves. It had been at this last that Varulf remembered asking a question of Ulfric, shortly after his promotion to Stormblade, before the assault on Fort Hraggstad that had followed shortly thereafter:

* * *

_"Why do you not fight with us, friend?"_

_Ulfric had paused at the question—in itself a rare sight. For a moment, Varulf had wondered if he had overstepped in asking. But the Jarl of Windhelm had sensed somehow that there was more on his mind, and so Varulf spoke it._

_"Our morale has never been higher, my Jarl, and our chances at victory never stronger—but I still cannot help but wonder how decisive our victories would be if you were here to share in their glory. You are a Nord—you deserve this as much as any son and daughter of Skyrim!"_

_At this, Ulfric had smiled—a warm, friendly smile that never failed to remind Varulf of his da. "I am honored you would wish to see me fight alongside you, friend Varulf. You have made quite the name for yourself among the Imperials who still challenge us. The 'Wolf of Whiterun', I understand they're beginning to call you."_

_Varulf had felt his cheeks color faintly at the moniker._

_"And that is why I do not need to fight," said Ulfric. "You see, Varulf, something happens to the Nord who does such deeds in his pursuit of glory as you have. His name spreads among the voices of the land—first in whispers, then in passing. As his fame grows with his deeds, he is spoken of in song by the tavern bards, for all the children of Skyrim to hear, and sing to their brothers and sisters. And it is then that he becomes more than just a Nord. He becomes a legend—a symbol of hope, for all who would listen to his tale, and so wish to follow in his footsteps."_

_He heaved himself off his throne. "They sing of the death of Torygg at my hands. Do I wish they did? Perhaps not; I would prefer they sing of something more heroic. But sing it they still do, and it is these songs that inspire us as Stormcloaks to act as all oppressed people should—to fight for the freedom of their homeland … "_

* * *

"I see," said Grimnir as Varulf finished recounting the tale. The Harbinger thought he saw entirely too well; the Dragonborn, after all, surely had had more than a few songs of his own devoted to him. He was just as much of a living legend as Ulfric was—and, as Ulfric had hinted, that Varulf might soon be himself.

"But you haven't answered my original question," the Arch-Mage went on. "What was Ulfric like _before_ all this? You've known him as a Jarl, as a potential High King—and as a freedom fighter all the while."

Varulf could almost feel the stare behind that mask. "Have you ever known him as anyone else?" he asked. "And has Ulfric ever known _you_ as anything else … besides who you already _are_?"

The Harbinger sat there, listening to the wind beat against the topmost tower of the College. It felt a rather appropriate sound to hear; there was nothing in his mind that he could think would suffice for an answer.

Evidently, Grimnir was not expecting one. "Think about it," he said. "But I wouldn't think long. The Moot's in less than a day—and we're a long way from Solitude."

"Will you be there?" Varulf felt the words falling from his mouth almost before he could stop them. But he already knew the answer to his question.

Grimnir shook his head. "No, I'm afraid I have business elsewhere," he replied. "Besides, I suspect my presence there would create certain … complications. Not every Jarl has the same luxury of perspective that you do, Varulf."

Varulf frowned. "Perspective?"

"Oh, yes." Grimnir adjusted his mask slightly, as if tending to an aggravating itch on his face. "Most Jarls only see the Empire or the Stormcloaks, and therefore are predisposed to support one over the other. But you, Varulf, lend your support to something else entirely—something beyond politics and borders."

Varulf bit his lip. "What makes _you_ so sure?"

Grimnir shrugged. "If you did not, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He stood up abruptly. "I must be off for Windhelm. One of my associates will be leaving for Tel Mithryn. She will want me to see her off. Tell the Jarls I send my best wishes."

Varulf knew there was no point in asking the Dragonborn to stay—but again, the words fell out seemingly of their own free will. "Arch-Mage—before you go?"

Grimnir turned around. "Yes?" Was it Varulf's imagination, or could he sense _triumph_ within the simple question?

Dispelling the thought, the Harbinger steeled himself, and spoke very carefully, "If all should go well at the Moot, then you will know where to find me. But this will not be the last time I shall seek your counsel."

"What are you talking about?" Despite the innocent nature of the question, Varulf could almost feel the temperature of the room dropping like a stone.

Nonetheless, the Harbinger replied "If all should go well, there is one thing I wish you to do for me."

"Which would be … ?"

Varulf told him.

* * *

Five minutes later, after Grimnir had departed without a word, Varulf himself was speeding westward for Solitude, the meeting with the Arch-Mage still in his mind.

Deep inside, Varulf knew he'd crossed a line now. The closer his carriage bore him to Haafingar Hold, the slimmer his chance to go back would become—and the more uncertain he was that his position was no clearer than it had been last night.

 _No matter what,_ he thought dismally, _I will be a betrayer._

* * *

_Temple of the Divines, Solitude_

_7_ _th_ _of Rain's Hand_

The sun high above Haafingar Hold beat upon the largest city in Skyrim as though unaware of the dilemma that had been plaguing Varulf for the entirety of the previous day. He'd had no sleep that night—there was no point in even trying. But his horse was not as blessed or cursed as he was—it could not go for so long without becoming fatigued.

So it was that the Harbinger of the Companions—dressed in his distinctive, ancient Nordic armor, Ysgramor's legendary axe and shield slung over his back—arrived at the Temple of the Divines well after the call to the Moot had begun. The keep had already been blocked off; the only way inside was blockaded by a platoon of the city guard. No doubt security was the foremost matter on their minds; Solitude had played host to a great many prominent deaths in its day. Torygg's hadn't even been the most recent, either; Tamriel would not soon forget the stain left by the Dark Brotherhood and their murders of Vittoria Vici—on these very grounds, no less—and of Emperor Titus Mede II shortly thereafter.

Regardless, he'd been let through without any trouble; the guards had only acknowledged him with a simple "Hail, Companion." For some reason, that provided a small modicum of comfort to Varulf; even here, at the site of the Empire's fall, there were still people in this city who saw him as neither traitor nor freedom fighter.

 _I wonder what they will see in me after today_ , he thought as he went inside.

The Temple of the Divines was the largest of its kind in all of Skyrim. All faiths were welcomed within its walls—especially after the fall of the Empire, Varulf noted as he saw the newly erected shrine to Talos on its plinth. The space was as high and wide as the Great Chapel of Talos in Bruma, though not quite so ornate in its construction. Where that holy space was illuminated by metal lanterns the size of a man, and windows of stained glass higher than a house, the Temple was lit only by candles in wooden chandeliers and rusted metal lamps, and the occasional beam of sunlight from the windows above the shrines within the structure's apse.

Today, the pews that normally lined the aisle had been moved to one side. In its place, a long table had been erected, stretching almost half the length of the entire building. It looked as though it had been set for a banquet, judging by the number of plates and cups that sat upon it. As if Varulf needed a further reminder of his lateness, most of the dishes already looked clean of food but for stray morsels, and those who were already seated at the table were staring at him expectantly.

Varulf recognized them all—the Jarls and their entourages—and it confirmed what he had already suspected.

Nearest to him, at the end of the table, sat Sorli the Builder and Thongvor Silver-Blood. Sorli, the new Jarl of Morthal, had inherited the title from the late Idgrod Ravencrone in the worst way possible. She'd done her part in attempting to rebuild Morthal after the destruction the Black Worm had wrought there—but if she was sitting _here_ , there was no chance of her becoming High Queen; Varulf suspected that even _she_ did not desire that honor.

Thongvor, on the other hand, was a surprise; the new Jarl of Markarth was the only surviving member of the Silver-Blood clan. They'd gained a reputation of possessing untold riches through controversial means that rivaled even the Black-Briars of Riften; that reputation, it soon transpired, had involved their manipulation of the Forsworn by Thonar, their patriarch, who had been brutally murdered by Madanach, the Forsworn "king", along with his wife Betrid in the mass breakout from Cidhna Mine, the town jail, that had taken place earlier this year. The scandal that had broken soon after had soured Thongvor's reputation across the province—only the Stormcloaks' liberation of Markarth and subsequent ousting of Igmund had made Thongvor's accession to Jarl possible in the first place. That opinion, it seemed, was not likely to change today—and Thongvor, Varulf suspected, might not last too long as Jarl, either, especially since the Forsworn's elite were now free to rampage throughout the Reach.

Adjacent to them sat Dengeir of Stuhn, recently reinstated as Jarl of Falkreath, and Laila Law-Giver of Riften. Varulf barely spared a second glance at either of them; he knew both of these people considered it enough that their predecessors—both of whom had allied themselves with the Empire—had been deposed from their positions after an all-too-brief rule. Laila, however, had made no small bones over the hollowness of her particular victory—everyone knew Maven Black-Briar had held all the _real_ power in that city even before her short reign as Jarl. Perhaps even her becoming High Queen, however slim the chance, might … but Varulf shrugged it off; it would not happen. The remaining men and women at this table were simply far better known.

Jarl Korir of Winterhold, however, who sat further up the table to Laila's right, could only be seated so high up because of the Dragonborn's position as Arch-Mage in the College that defined his holdings. Perhaps Korir hoped a position as High King would better keep the College in check, Varulf thought—regardless of who served as its leader, he would blame the Great Collapse that had gutted most of his town on the mages who resided there.

Then there was Skald of Dawnstar. The old Jarl looked older than ever, and Varulf wasn't sure whether or not to blame him. He'd heard the rumors, after all, of the Dark Brotherhood settling into a new hideout on the doorstep of the town. That was enough to give anyone sleepless nights for weeks on end—which, by the sounds of it, had been happening to everyone else in Dawnstar. Varulf had also heard the rumors accompanying those stories—but, having not been to the city much himself, could only shrug them off. Probably just the wind, he'd thought; the northern coastlines tended to get especially cold and stormy—enough to give anyone restless nights. One way or another, though, Skald probably had enough on his mind already without having designs of being High King himself.

His eyes then traveled to the final two Jarls at the table—and of course he recognized old Vignar. The patriarch of the Grey-Mane clan, one of Whiterun's two oldest and most renowned clans, was often to be seen in Jorrvaskr even after the Stormcloaks had removed Balgruuf from his throne once they'd seized Whiterun Hold—a victory that, by all accounts, had been the turning point of the entire war. Vignar smiled as he went past him; Varulf, however, did not give any outward sign of recognition—he did not want to say anything to anyone right now. _Not yet_.

Finally, there was Elisif. Easily the youngest of the Jarls seated here—with the possible exception of Sorli—the widow of the previous High King, Torygg, possessed a grace and presence unlike any woman Varulf had ever met before, including Aela. Elisif had not even flinched as the Stormcloaks had sacked her city—nor had she given any visible reaction to being allowed by Ulfric to stay on as Jarl of Solitude. Perhaps that was why she was seated so close to Ulfric in the first place—he wanted to keep an especially close eye on Elisif, just in case she might decide to try something rash.

And speaking of Ulfric, there he was … standing at the opposite end of the table, and as always, flanked by Galmar Stone-Fist and Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, each one armed to the teeth and armored in the bear-pelts reserved for Stormcloak generals.

Next to Galmar, however, was a third person that Varulf recognized as Brunwulf Free-Winter. Varulf had no idea what he might be doing here; Brunwulf was known throughout Windhelm as a more liberal-minded figure, particularly towards the Argonians who worked at the docks, and the Dunmer who'd been forced to flee the destruction of their homeland two centuries ago—only to find themselves, largely, in poverty and squalor. It was most unlike Ulfric to bring someone along as part of his entourage, when his views were largely—

That was when it hit Varulf: _Brunwulf was going to be made Jarl of Windhelm_.

And what was more, no one had protested this, either. Varulf now knew everyone at this table was going to cast their vote for Ulfric—no one would dissent; the seating arrangements were all the proof of this he needed. The closer to Ulfric everyone sat, the more powerful in the province they were. It was a perfect means of quelling any dissenting votes as well; anyone who opposed Ulfric's accession to High King would be staring down the table at Ulfric—with more powerful Jarls in between. Similarly, if a powerful Jarl like Elisif were to reject Ulfric as rightful ruler, then they would find themselves in between the majority of the other Jarls—and Ulfric himself, Voice and all.

Varulf grimaced as the implications of what he was seeing sank in. Ulfric had manipulated the Moot with all the cunning of a _high elf_. Which could only mean …

His eyes fell upon the seated figure close to the door.

So focused on the table before him had Varulf been that he'd completely missed Elenwen on his way in. The First Emissary of the Thalmor—and the Aldmeri Dominion's Ambassador to Skyrim—was seated on one of the stone benches that lined the exterior walls of the Temple. Varulf noted with no small amount of scorn that Elenwen was seated on an overstuffed cushion; he wondered if she'd brought it herself, or if she'd persuaded the priestesses to fetch one for her. He wouldn't have put either option past her. At least she was alone; there were no Justiciars guarding her right now. Perhaps she was confident none of the Jarls or their entourages would turn on her today.

Right now, Elenwen's gaze was focused entirely on Ulfric, and Varulf thought he knew why; she wanted to make sure everything that happened inside this Temple happened according to the wishes of the Dominion. Varulf grimaced inwardly at this; Elenwen must have suspected that the Moot would jeopardize the Thalmor's long-term goals, and so she would sit in on it using her position as Ambassador—no doubt under the further pretext of some clause or other of the White-Gold Concordat, Varulf thought scathingly.

Slowly, deliberately, he walked past Elenwen—slowing his pace to a crawl the closer he drew to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the high elf draw back slightly in annoyance of how Varulf had blocked her view of Ulfric. At this, the Harbinger nodded once—again slowly and deliberately—and sat down on a bench across the aisle and opposite her, keeping his bloodshot eyes fixed on the Altmer.

Jarl Vignar stood up from his seat at that moment—and as if by magic, all noise within the Temple ceased. Varulf felt his heart rate increase as silence fell.

The Moot had begun.

* * *

"My fellow Jarls," Vignar began, his coarse voice echoing throughout the temple, "we are gathered here today by the grace of the _Nine_ " (Varulf saw Elenwen visibly shift on her cushion at the emphasized word) "and in the face of a crossroads unlike any the land of Skyrim has ever faced before. After this long, violent, bloody struggle for our independence … we are finally free from the occupation of the Empire of Cyrodiil."

No one spoke. Skald and Thongvor nodded in agreement, and Vignar took this as his invitation to continue.

"But our freedom has not come without price," he said sadly. "Many lives were lost in needless bloodshed. Entire cities were ravaged and pillaged. There are many families without a roof over their heads, or hands to tend the crops that survived—and there are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who will never see their families again, having paid the greatest price of all. I ask now for a moment of silence, that their sacrifice may be long remembered, not only in the annals of our history … but in our hearts and minds. For it is to those brave sons and daughters of Skyrim that we owe our freedom."

Varulf bowed his head in silence, as did many of the other Jarls. He distinctly heard Elenwen sniff from her bench, though, and made a quick prayer to Talos that the elf would meet her own fate soon enough.

The moment soon passed, and at length, Vignar began speaking once more. "Though the battle is won, the war at large is not yet over," he added. "The Forsworn continue to run rampant in the Reach. The Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood haunt the shadows and the night. And our roads continue to be stalked by bandits and worse.

"Meanwhile, there are those outside of Skyrim who have seen what we have done, and prepare to make their move as well. The Elder Council and the nobility of Cyrodiil continue to fight among themselves for control of the vacant Ruby Throne. The Aldmeri Dominion, too"—he cast a look at Elenwen—"surely will not sit idly by while we assert our newfound independence."

Out of the corner of his eye, Varulf saw Galmar looking at him. Even from here, he could almost read the Nord's mind: _Why aren't you standing with Ulfric? You belong by his side!_ He merely jerked his head towards Elenwen, and watched Galmar's eyes following his gaze. The Stone-fist's eyes narrowed, but he did not say anything further.

"But, my lords and ladies," rasped Vignar, "with the Imperial Legion now driven out of Skyrim, and its nine holds united under one Voice—if you'll excuse the turn of phrase," he muttered to Ulfric, who laughed, along with several other Jarls, "we are now free to address them in the only way we can. We must elect a new High King—a Nord who will lead the sons and daughters of Skyrim to the glorious and prosperous province that it once was!"

He sat down with the help of his steward Brill, aging joints creaking. "As he who issued the summons, tradition demands I cast my vote first. And so—as Talos is my witness—I nominate that that Nord should be the Jarl of Windhelm—Ulfric Stormcloak!"

Varulf exhaled. They were getting straight into it, then. He knew he had to decide on a course of action now.

Brunwulf Free-Winter now stepped forward. "As he who would succeed the challenger, should he be elected," he said, speaking carefully and evenly, "I am to cast the second vote. After much time and thought … I also wish to nominate Ulfric Stormcloak."

The Harbinger bit his lip. _That's two out of nine in favor—three, counting Ulfric himself_. But if Brunwulf was casting his vote in favor of Ulfric, then the vote was almost certainly a formality—it going to be unanimous—

"All others in favor?" Ulfric asked, his rich, deep voice booming throughout the Temple despite its softness.

"Aye!"

"Aye!"

"Aye!"

The votes came so rapidly that Varulf could not tell who spoke first, second, or from there. It seemed as though everyone had spoken at once; it was a miracle that anyone could keep track of who had spoken when. Elenwen, however, seemed to have no trouble, judging by her grim smile—Varulf bit his lip, trying to force the image out of his mind— _it was now or never_ , thought a tiny voice in his mind—

"—all opposed?" Ulfric's voice came, as if from entire leagues away—

…

"Nay."

…

The voice was so soft that Varulf almost didn't hear it—he didn't even realize he'd heard it at first. But a few moments later, he became aware of the utter silence that had fallen over the temple …

… and the eyes of every single person inside gazing directly at _him_.

Only then did Varulf realize that that had been _his_ voice—his dissention that had echoed off the walls of the Temple for all to hear; his objection to the most powerful Jarl in Skyrim being installed to the most powerful political position in the entire province.

 _What have I done?_ he thought, in a tiny corner within the back of his mind.

As if in reply, damnably, words he'd heard only recently, delivered in a language that only one human in Skyrim could possibly understand—and whose meaning Varulf Blackmane had only just now discovered:

 _Dah ro fus_.

 _I push at the balance of force_.

"Treachery!" he heard Galmar bellow. The bellicose Nord had unsheathed his axe—only to be rebuffed by Ulfric, who was giving Varulf a stare unlike any the Harbinger had ever seen before—although he thought he knew why.

_… I have become a betrayer._

* * *

_End of Part I_


	2. Alpha (Part II)

II

Mutters flew hither and thither across the table. All eight of the seated Jarls were casting looks at Varulf, gesturing at him as if he'd gone mad—and who was to say he hadn't just now? Who in their right mind, after all—Jarl or no Jarl—would vote against Ulfric Stormcloak?! Even the normally unflappable Elenwen was nonplussed; for the first time, her concentration on Ulfric had been broken completely. She was now staring at the Harbinger with mingled surprise and fury.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're playing at, Varulf?" Yrsarald now stepped forward from beside Ulfric, unsheathing his own weapon as he did so. "Do you even realize what you're doing?!" he shouted.

"I realize it all too well, friend." And Varulf knew he was speaking the truth—more of it, he suspected, than anyone else inside this Temple realized.

_Because this is what you planned all along … isn't it, Grimnir?!_

The Arch-Mage, Varulf now knew, had had no intention of declaring for either side of the war—before, during, or after it. The Dragonborn was above all other Nords—above all other men, and therefore their matters as well. The peace treaty he had brokered was never meant to last—only to last until his battle with the god Alduin could be fought. Indeed, all of his battles seemed to be carried out on a much grander canvas than military struggles or political feuds—how petty they must seem, Varulf thought, compared to the struggles of a god in human form!

But Grimnir was still in human form, and therefore still susceptible to the human temptation of inserting himself into other people's affairs. The Dragonborn had known of the Thalmor's plans ever since he'd gotten his hands on that dossier—perhaps even before that—but how to interfere with them, in a way not even _they_ could possibly have suspected?

His answer, Varulf now knew, had been the Harbinger himself. For he, too, knew the elves were a greater threat than the Empire. He, too, believed in something other than ideals espoused by Stormcloaks and Legionnaires alike—something older and more enduring than military might or political power.

He knew that Varulf believed in the power of _Man_.

And Varulf now knew it was up to _him_ to affirm his belief in that power.

* * *

Ulfric stepped forward at length, and the other Jarls immediately tensed—as did Varulf; even from here, he could almost hear his renowned Voice coming, building up from within his throat.

"Let me ask you something, Varulf," Ulfric said, surprisingly calmly for a man in his position. "Why do you fight? Why did this little lad come to my palace all those years ago, eyes shining with the promise of fighting the Empire?"

Varulf faltered at the unexpected question—but only a little. "Because I believed Skyrim ought to be free," he said, looking Ulfric right in the eye. "That her people deserved to _live_ free."

The Jarl smiled—completely at odds with the apprehensive atmosphere around him. "How very noble of you," he chuckled. "But perhaps I wasn't clear. Why do you fight for _me?_ Any man with an axe and a whetstone may stand up and fight for their right to live freely. Only a small number of those people chose to stand with me." The smile faded. "Why were you one of those people, Stormblade?"

Varulf sighed. "I was new to the land when they caught us all at Darkwater Crossing. You were the first man whose name I learned in Skyrim. You were my guide … my Voice. You said what we were all thinking, and the way you said it swayed us all to follow you. Because of you, we gained our own voice. Because of _you_ , the Empire has heard us, and knows who we are—what we can _be_."

He began to pace up and down the end of the table. "I joined the Companions because I saw them as heroes. They fought for personal pride—for honor and glory, and the deeds they did around the province set them apart in the eyes of many. These were not insurrectionists—not traitors—but everyday people who dreamed of something greater.

"I don't rightly know what led me from there to Windhelm," Varulf said. "Perhaps I had too much Nord blood in my veins to just ignore the fact that my home was at stake. You know I was born in Bruma—in Cyrodiil—but I remain a Nord at heart, and so Skyrim will _always_ be my home. I told as much to my da when I came of age—when I told him I wanted to join the Companions. He bade me farewell the next morning with his heavy axe and a heavier heart—but he told me that he knew, deep down, that I would always _do the right thing_.

"I told myself that with everything I did—whether crushing the skulls of bandits to pulp in the Companions, or driving out the soldiers of the Empire from our homeland. But I began to wonder, Varulf—why were we wasting such time on the Empire? Why not move on to the people we both knew were more dangerous than Legionnaires—why not drive the Thalmor out instead of them?"

"Because we had no need to!" Galmar shot back. "You know this, Varulf! Driving the Empire out would have sent a message to the Thalmor—a message that the sons and daughters of Skyrim would not be cowed by _elves_!"

He shot a look of disgust at Elenwen.

Varulf, for his part, remained where he stood. "Did Ulfric tell you that, Galmar?"

"Of course he did!" bellowed Yrsarald. "He told all of us—and you know damn well he told you, too! Don't play us for fools, Varulf!"

"We are _all of us_ fools!" shouted Varulf, raising his voice for the first time today. "We were fools to listen to the Thalmor in the first place! _I_ was a fool to believe the Companions could fight for anything more than personal glory—and _you_ were fools to believe that the Stormcloaks could fight for anything more than the freedom of their homeland! Is that not why you say you fight, Ulfric—or has there been _another_ reason, all this time?"

Silence. Ulfric's hands were clenching into fists. Yrsarald and Galmar backed away in unison, neither wanting to be caught in the backlash of the attack that would surely come—

But somehow, the Jarl of Windhelm still managed to remain calm—although his voice sounded deeper than ever, like a building storm on the Sea of Ghosts.

"You're _damned right_ I fight for a reason, Stormblade," he rumbled. "I fight for the men I've held in my arms, dying on foreign soil. I _fight_ for their wives and children, whose names I heard whispered in their last breaths. I _fight_ for the few of us who _did_ come home, only to find our country full of _strangers_ wearing familiar faces!"

Ulfric was growing louder, more animated with every word he spoke. Out of the corner of his eye, Varulf saw Galmar and Yrsarald exchange grins; they knew Ulfric perhaps better than anyone alive today, and no doubt had heard these words before.

"I _fight_ for my people, impoverished to pay the debts of an Empire too weak to rule them, yet who branded them criminals for wanting to rule themselves! I _fight_ so that all the fighting I've already done hasn't been for _nothing!_ "

Blue wisps of smoke poured from his mouth suddenly, and only then did Ulfric seem to realize where he was, and how loudly he was shouting. When he next spoke, the fire and fervor was nowhere to be found, replaced by a bare whisper of a trembling voice that seemed wholly unlike the man Varulf had known throughout this whole war.

"I _fight_ ," he spoke, "because I _must_." The Jarl's voice, for all its huskiness and weight, was almost _childlike_.

And in that instant—the moment the word "childlike" had crossed his mind—Varulf knew he'd found the chink in Ulfric's armor. He now knew what Grimnir had truly asked him in that chilly tower of his College last morning:

_Has Ulfric ever known_ you _as anything else … besides who you already_ are?

Varulf had had no answer then—but today, he knew precisely what he had to say. And so—choosing his words with the utmost of care—he began to say it.

"When I was a boy," he said, "I used to pretend, as many boys do. Every day, I'd chop wood for my da to keep the fires burning when the winters were cold. I always had this fantasy that if I could chop enough wood, I'd have such skill with the axe that I'd be able to cleave a whole tree down the middle with but a single stroke. The Companions would see this, and welcome me among their numbers with open arms. I'd be a legend among legends—a modern-day Ysgramor." He chuckled bleakly, feeling the nostalgia caress his mind before slowly eroding to ash in the face of his reality. "But I knew, deep down, I was only a boy. I grew older, wiser, still chopping wood for my da.

"It wasn't until Bruma had disappeared behind me, when I started on my journey to Skyrim, that I realized how my dream had changed me. It had made me stronger, in both body and mind—I saw in a shrinking puddle in the road how my arms looked as thick as any piece of timber I'd split in my youth. I saw the lines in my face, the spark in my eyes—and I knew that all my years of dreaming had finally paid off.

"That was when it hit me," Varulf said. That was when I knew I could be a _hero_."

He stared round at the hall—from the Jarls, to the Stormcloak elites, and finally to Varulf himself—and then he played his first trump card.

"I remember my childhood, Ulfric," he said, pausing for a dangerous three seconds—before adding, "What can you tell me about yours?"

Ulfric stopped, pausing to think. There was silence in the hall.

Then silence.

… Then _silence_.

"Do you remember the first time you picked up an axe?" Varulf said softly, as if trying to nudge Ulfric along to an answer. "Did your father, the 'Bear of Eastmarch', teach you in your youth—or did it simply come naturally to you? Can you remember? Maybe you chopped wood for the Palace of the Kings to keep it warm—pretending each piece of timber was the neck of some faceless bandit?"

Ulfric's ruddy face was paling. His eyes were uncomfortably wide—Varulf wondered if he had ever been this shocked in his life. "I … " he could only stammer. "I … don't … "

"Remember?" Varulf finished for him. "You don't remember ever having any fanciful childhood dreams? Why?"

As Ulfric stood there, mouth half-open as he tried to string together an answer, the Harbinger played his second and final trump card, tossing it onto the table for all the Jarls to see.

"That is a dossier on Ulfric Stormcloak," he said. "You will notice it bears the official seal of the Thalmor. Read it—all of you. It's high time we all learned the truth behind the Jarl of Windhelm."

Out of the corner of his eye, Varulf saw Elenwen rise to her feet, her face contorting in ugly anger. But Varulf paid it no mind—he only had eyes for the audience before him. No one moved; they only stared at the book.

Then, very slowly, Jarl Sorli of Morthal stretched out an arm, picking up the folio, smoothing out the page—and she began to read. Varulf's eyes saw her own slowly moving over the yellowed pages—saw her mouth moving silently, forming the damning words inscribed within—

And finally, more slowly still, Sorli's gaze traveled to Ulfric as she passed the dossier across the table to Thongvor. Her expression was blank. The Argonian aide with her, perhaps sensing her change in expression, bent down to whisper in her ear. Whatever Sorli whispered back in reply caused the lizard-man to stiffen, and he now stared at Elenwen with the coldness of winter in his beady blue eyes.

Barely a minute later, Thongvor had finished reading through the dossier. Varulf knew this because the last of the Silver-Bloods had pushed back his chair, his face a mask of total shock. He rounded on a still-confused Ulfric—and then he, too, turned towards the Altmer.

"You would dare?!" His voice was a bare hiss, strangled by anger.

Elenwen said nothing.

Laila Law-Giver, meanwhile, had opened the book. Barely a minute later, her face was bone-white.

"' … Even indirect aid to the Stormcloaks must be carefully managed'?" Her whisper carried throughout the hall. She was staring at Elenwen in bitter fury. "You have played us both for _fools_!"

The next few minutes were a blur, as now every single person in the room save for Varulf, who watched the scene unfold with a calmness he'd never thought possible from him—and for Elenwen, who seemed to want to melt into the Temple walls as stare after angry stare brought to bear on her—descended upon the dossier like skeevers on a sweet roll. Slowly, gradually, a mutter of murmurs began to heave into a rising tide of uproar.

"Deceiver!" Jarl Dengeir hissed.

"Witch!" rasped Jarl Skald.

Slowly, gradually, all eyes were on Elenwen—save for Varulf's; he continued to stare down his former commander, who seemed to have no idea where he was. Though his attention was on Varulf, every few moments his eyes flickered, as if in search for a lifeline to grab amidst the storm that had suddenly erupted around him.

"They hollowed you out." Varulf's calm voice was the eye of that storm. "The elves took everything about Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm—and they _burned_ it, and put what was left to the sword. They took away your memories, your hopes and dreams—your _childhood_ —and turned you into a weapon of retribution and rage."

Galmar looked furious. Varulf paid him no mind—he could feel the moment coming. "This is no small pain for me, old friend, that I've had to bear," he said. "But I cannot allow this to go on any longer."

He straightened, and unhooked Wuuthrad, bringing it blade down upon the stone at his feet with a loud CLANG. "Ulfric Stormcloak," Varulf bellowed, "I denounce you as a puppet of the Thalmor, I reject you as the rightful High King of Skyrim—and as Harbinger of the Companions, I challenge you this day for that right … _to the death!_ "

" _No!_ "

Varulf kept himself from jumping in surprise—he'd almost completely forgotten Elenwen was next to him. The Altmer was red in the face, and shaking with barely suppressed rage.

"I must … intervene here," she said through gritted teeth. "I am afraid what you are proposing would violate the terms of the White-Gold—"

But Varulf would have none of it. " _Silence the bitch or send her away, Galmar!_ " he roared. The Stonefist jumped at the sound of his name, and looked from Varulf to Ulfric to Elenwen with a mixture of confusion and anger. The Altmer, Varulf was pleased to see, had paled completely at the outburst, and presently returned to her cushion on tottering legs, with all eyes trained on her.

"This is a provincial matter," Varulf resumed, breathing heavily. "The elf will have no say in this. What say you, _my Jarl?_ " he asked, putting as much emphasis as he could into the two words.

And while he did so, he took out his axe.

Not the battleaxe Wuuthrad, strapped across his back, but a smaller one tucked into his belt, enough so that he could wield it with one hand. Ironically enough, it had been Ulfric who had first told him of the customs of men here in Skyrim, and who had told him to carry such an axe wherever he went, in case the opportunity ever came.

Varulf slid the axe across the wooden table, and it came to a stop directly in front of Ulfric. A collective gasp arose from those seated at the table, and all who had seen it. He took note of their reactions—Elisif, Skald, Galmar, and all the rest of them—and knew now that he had their attention. They knew the tradition Varulf had just invoked.

They knew now he was being serious.

The moments that followed were some of the slowest and tensest in Varulf's memory. Every eye was turned on Ulfric; the Jarl was silent for a very long time, his gaze never leaving the section of table where Varulf's axe had skidded to a stop. The Harbinger would have surrendered every relic of Ysgramor he carried to know what thoughts were brewing inside Ulfric's mind.

The Jarl reached out for the axe, and turned it over in his hand. Like most of Varulf's kit, it was fashioned in the style of the ancient Nords, only seen in this day and age by the _draugr_ who still roamed the tomb-cities throughout the province. Only one place in all of Skyrim—and perhaps all of Tamriel—knew how to recreate such arms and armor again: the Skyforge … the oldest fixture of Whiterun, older even than Jorrvaskr, the first building of the city.

That Varulf favored this style was a sign of his devotion to the Nords of the elder days—when Ysgramor and his ilk still roamed the earth in flesh and blood. The Harbinger wondered if Ulfric knew what he did—that not even Eorlund, master of the Skyforge and brother to Vignar, could smelt such arms and armor as those on his back.

Then, Ulfric placed the axe back on the table … and with a heave, slid it back to Varulf. "So be it," he said.

In that fleeting, silent moment, Varulf knew his fate had been sealed. His challenge had been accepted.

Today—here and now—a betrayer would die.

* * *

Immediately, the benches had cleared around them. The Jarls, their housecarls, and their stewards scrambled as one for the columns that lined the great chamber, scuttling behind them with speed that belied their age. None of them wanted to get in the way of time-honored tradition—more to the point, none of them wanted to get in the way of either Nord, standing at opposite ends of the temple.

Varulf unhooked Wuuthrad from his back, then reverently laid it on the bench where he'd been sitting. He and Ulfric both knew who that blade was for—and knew that Varulf would not waste it on spilling the blood of Man.

_"Fus … Ro DAH!"_

The Jarl's Shout came almost without warning. The blue wind that he'd expelled from his mouth carried everything in its path. Silverware and dishes were scattered to the far reaches of the Temple, smashing porcelain, wood, and metal alike and sending their shrapnel flying every which way. The great table where the Jarls had been sitting was split down the middle by Ulfric's Unrelenting Force; heavy timber was splintered into matchwood, and nails became lethal weapons, whistling through the air like arrows speeding for their mark.

Varulf, however, was ready. In the same movement that he'd made to strip himself of Wuuthrad, he'd grasped the enormous shield on his back. This shield had belonged to Ysgramor himself, so the legend went—and so heavy was it that Varulf did not doubt any other man of that legend's day ever could. But Varulf's childhood dream—and all the years he'd spent nurturing that dream with each log he'd split—had given him the strength to wield both legendary treasures of the Atmoran king.

Thus, in one fluid movement, the shield had been thrust in front of Varulf's chest. At the same time, the Harbinger had dropped to a knee, putting as much of his muscular stature behind the shield as he could. He felt Ulfric's Shout meet the shield head-on, causing the metal to resound with a deep, bell-like note that throbbed in the bones of all present—how chilling the sound, even in this space—but no other damage was caused to it, nor did Varulf feel himself flying through the air, Shouted apart just like Torygg.

For now, he had survived.

The battle was joined—the final fight for the future of Skyrim had begun.

_"Wuld … Nah KEST!"_

Varulf lowered his shield just in time to see Ulfric's body become a blur. The Jarl of Windhelm streaked down the middle of the Temple, carving his way through the devastation his Unrelenting Force had wrought faster than a hawk on the wing. In his hand, Varulf saw a war axe of his own, hissing with ice-blue enchantments as it swung in an arc—directly for the Harbinger's head—

_WHAM_.

Ulfric stumbled back, his arm numbed, perhaps even broken, where it had crashed into Varulf's shield. Varulf, having only moments to respond to the attack, had let his shield drop forward until the circular edge faced Ulfric. Then, the Harbinger had flicked his wrist, turning that edge on its side—directly into Ulfric's elbow. The momentum of his Whirlwind Sprint had left the Jarl with nowhere to go but into the maneuver—causing him to drop his axe onto the floor, where it was promptly blown into a column by the winds created by Ulfric's Voice. The blade embedded itself into the stone, inches from where Jarl Thongvor and Jarl Skald huddled together, gazing at the unfolding battle.

This was not Ulfric against Torygg—a man against a boy. The fight within this temple was against two warriors in their prime—two men each considered, in their own way, the pinnacle of what it meant to be a true Nord. On the one hand, Jarl Ulfric was one of only a handful of men who had mastered the Way of the Voice, second only in skill to the Last Dragonborn. That Jarl Ulfric did not possess the soul of a dragon—yet still commanded such power and skill as had been displayed so far—would have sent even a seasoned warrior racing for the hills.

But Varulf Blackmane was more than simply seasoned. He was the Harbinger of the Companions—the latest of the line of Ysgramor. Perhaps that would have been enough to solidify his own claim to the throne—but the way in which he'd put his claim forward was not how many Nords might have gone about it. Varulf had learned the value of subterfuge in battle, during his and Aela's many hunts in the pale moonlight of Whiterun Hold. To ensure a bountiful hunt, a hunter needed more than just brute force—but knowledge of the lay of the land, and of what he was hunting as well.

_To be a_ true _predator_ , Aela had told him once, _one must think like the_ prey.

And that was what Varulf had done up until now. By sizing up the climate of the Moot, he had found his lay of the land. By revealing his knowledge of the Thalmor's dossier, he had dangled the bait in front of the would-be prey.

Now, as he swung out with his own axe at Ulfric, the Harbinger knew he had to think as his prey thought—as _Ulfric_ thought—to anticipate where he would Shout before the Words came to his lips. Only then, by proving himself in battle, could he be validated as a true predator … a _true Nord_.

"They will sing of this battle for eras to come!" Ulfric boomed in the thick of the fight, dodging out of the reach of Varulf's swings—then ducking, rolling, and recovering in one fluid movement to recover his axe from the pillar it had been stuck in. This, too, he swung at Varulf; the axeblades clashed with a scream of metal and a flash of sparks.

"You will not live to hear it sung!" Varulf retorted, putting his strength into his swinging arm. He suppressed a grimace as something stirred within him—hulking, snuffling, growling as it sensed the hunt—

_"Zuun … Haal VIIK!"_ Ulfric bellowed, and yet another gust of wind spouted forth from his mouth. Varulf had nowhere to go; the force of the Shout hit him full in the face, causing him to stumble, his shield to fall from his hands, and sending his axe spiraling into the air—

—and right into Ulfric's open palm.

Varulf felt his breath catch. His weapon was gone—and Ulfric was close enough to him that both his axes would find Varulf's neck before his hand could grasp the shield at his feet.

"And you call yourself a warrior," Ulfric said. His voice was deadly quiet. "Your time in the Companions filled your mind with talk of heroes and glory—but there are neither to be found in war. There are those who are called heroes of war—but there are also those who call such men _butchers_."

Slowly, he advanced on the Harbinger. "We no longer live in an age of heroes, Varulf. _Su … Grah DUN!_ "

Once again, the Voice spilled from his lips, this time washing over his arms. Varulf saw the Jarl's muscles twitch—and then suddenly Ulfric's arms disappeared from reality.

Had Varulf not seen the momentary tell before Ulfric had struck, he might well have died then and there. As it was, the blades of both axes, borne by superhuman speed, had swung at his vital points—one for his neck, another for his heart—and he had no way of raising his shield in time. But the shield had landed face-down, balancing on the ridge that divided its construction in two—and as Varulf had attempted to escape the killing blow, he'd acted.

He stamped down on Ysgramor's shield as hard as he could, kicking it into Ulfric's boots with all his might. The Jarl stumbled once more as the heavy metal crumpled his right foot, crunching what sounded like every bone in it. But Ulfric's axes—twin blurs in his hand—were already at the apex of their swing; Varulf could not hope to stop them, only redirect them. So it was that what would have been two fatal blows now carved through his waist and left shoulder—bypassing his armor completely—and making Varulf roar in pain.

Ulfric had drawn first blood.

But again, the momentum that his Shout had granted his attack had caused him to overswing. The axe that had cut through Varulf's chest—the ancient Nordic weapon carried by the Harbinger—now spiraled out of his hand from a combination of overbalancing from the swing, and ongoing pain from Ulfric's shattered foot. Ulfric's other axe—his own—still remained inside Varulf's shoulder, but before the Jarl could retrieve it for the coup de grace, Varulf had moved away, delivering a kick to Ulfric's chest that sent the man sprawling.

"Perhaps not today," Varulf said, breathing heavily, grimacing as he wrenched Ulfric's axe out of his bloody arm, "but we _will_."

He dove to retrieve his axe—but Ulfric was already upon him. His Thu'um enhanced fists peppered Varulf's exposed flesh—for the armor he wore was not all-encompassing. The pitted pauldrons and greaves, cuirass and helmet—while certainly well-maintained—were very old, and so were not made with the knowledge of the human body a soldier possessed—a killing machine like Ulfric.

"You, as a Companion," he bellowed, throwing punch after punch, kick after kick, "seek honor and glory on the battlefield! But for all your noble fiber, there is nothing glorious to be found in war … and there is nothing honorable about what you have done here."

A right hook to the jaw—"There is more to this war to come than simply _slaying_ the elves, Varulf"—a left kick to the chest—"they are strong, and matching their strength will take time. Yet you, in your haste to act, refuse to accept this! You believe the fighting is done simply because the Empire has been driven away? No!"

The Jarl of Windhelm was punching incessantly now, every other word punctuated with a brutal blow. "Our brothers—our sisters—our sons—our daughters—our mothers—our fathers … you would lead them all to their destruction at the hands of the elves, without any thought to the future!"

Each one of his punches struck true; within moments, Varulf's body was a mass of bruised flesh wearing armor and scant furs. The Harbinger could do nothing against the furious onslaught; every time he raised his shield, Ulfric would move in with a quick punch elsewhere, forcing him to move his guard elsewhere.

It was then that Varulf—with one hand holding his waist to staunch the blood flow, and the other trying desperately to protect the rest of him—knew he was at a disadvantage. His heavy armor encumbered him, slowed him down to where he was little more than a slow-moving mammoth; Ulfric, meanwhile, wore no armor to weigh him down. Buoyed by the power of his Voice, the Jarl of Windhelm continued to strike with the ferocity of a bear—unceasing, unrelenting, never letting up until Varulf was at the door on one knee.

Bruised.

Bloodied.

And perhaps—finally— _beaten_.

But Ulfric was still not satisfied.

_"Krif … Haal GRAAN!"_ he bellowed, and again the Thu'um surged over his arms. This time, however, his fists did not shimmer with the fleeting fury of the winds … but the steadfast, unyielding strength of the earth itself.

That strength now rushed for Varulf's battered body in a crushing left hook. In one fell swoop, the plackart of the Harbinger's cuirass was swiftly ripped off, slicing through the air, past another pillar—narrowly missing the neck of Jarl Sorli, who watched the brutal brawl with fearful eyes—and embedding itself in the wall beyond.

Without the plackart to connect them, the faulds and pauldrons that protected Varulf's sides and shoulders had no other means of support. They clattered to the floor, one after another, each one leaving the Harbinger more and more defenseless against Ulfric's barrage.

Ulfric lunged out again with another punch—and this time his aim was true: not only did the blow connect squarely in Varulf's sternum, cracking multiple ribs and caving in his chest, but the sheer momentum sent him right through the doors of the Temple. The heavy oak burst asunder, little more than toothpicks—while Varulf's body careened into the air and into the courtyard.

The Harbinger hit the stone pavilion with a wet SMACK, feeling his broken ribs blaze with yet more pain as he skidded along the ground, leaving a swath of red behind him. Such was the force of Ulfric's punch that only the stone walls that separated the Temple from the rest of the city stopped him in his tracks—but even then, a few loose tiles fell to the ground from the force of the impact.

Varulf could not get up—he could barely even move for the pain in his sides, his chest, and just about everywhere else. He was naked before Ulfric's fury—defenseless, weaponless, and out of—

…

No.

…

_Not yet_ , he heard it snarl inside him.

Through his puffed-up eyes, he saw Ulfric, limping out into the Temple grounds—but still on his feet. Varulf saw the two axes in his hands—saw Ulfric swinging his shoulders, limbering them up.

He was going to kill him with the Harbinger's own axe.

"I am impressed, Companion," he heard Ulfric say. "You put up much more of a fight than Torygg. It may even be possible that I will never fight again because of the wounds you have given me. But for all your might and Ysgramor's steel, the strength I wield is older than even him. Every Nord carries the strength of the Voice—but only a handful of us can learn the Words that give it shape and form."

He sighed. "I am very sorry it had to come to this," he said—and Varulf heard no trace of a lie in his words. "You were a brave warrior—and for this, I pray Shor will show mercy for what you have done today."

The blades came up. "Good-bye, friend Varulf. Give my regards to Ysgramor and Kodlak, if you should see them in Sovngarde."

The blades came down—

* * *

Varulf had no memory of what happened after that next moment. All that he was aware of was the flash of Ulfric's axe and his own, both bearing down upon his neck in opposite directions.

It seemed to take an eternity for them to swing forward. Perhaps that was some trick of the mind; he'd heard from his fellow Stormcloaks of how Time itself seemed to speed up or slow down in the heat of battle. Or perhaps it was no trick; the Dragonborn himself, it was rumored, could slow Time to but a crawl with the power of his Voice.

Whatever the source of this trickery, Varulf thought he saw something atop the Temple of the Divines, gazing down at the fight below: a human figure, with a horned head too small to be an armored helm—

_The hunt is finished_ , Varulf heard in his mind. _End it—come to me, and serve as my favored hound for all time_ —

CRACK.

All of a sudden, the Jarl's axes had stopped in their tracks. By then, the figure had vanished as quickly as Varulf had seen him— _had he even been there?_ some part of him wondered—allowing him to see the reason why—

Then he saw Ulfric, his eyes wide and his shoulders bulging with exertion—and then Varulf felt the pain coursing through his hands, the palms bleeding as each one clutched at the blades of a weapon.

He had stopped them _with his bare hands_.

Varulf felt it at that moment—it was beginning to stir. He would not have much time—

"You think I will lead these people to their destruction, Ulfric?" he heard himself ask—but already he did not sound like himself … or even look like himself. His voice was noticeably more savage—growling—and the loss of his armor allowed him to see the black hair growing across his exposed flesh—

"Well, you are right about one thing," growled the Harbinger of the Companions, rising to a knee, then to his feet, grasping both axes all the while. "I _will_ _ **lead**_ _them_!"

Then his world became red. The last thing he saw before the scarlet haze consumed him was Ulfric's eyes, wide with terror—

—and the last thing he heard was the deafening roar of a monster.

* * *

The demonic noise echoed all throughout Solitude, bringing the whole city to a halt. Beirand's forge rested for the first time since the Civil War. Headmaster Viarmo of the Bards College made a stutter in his lecture, lapsing into silence. The merchants in the streets, plying their food, drink, and other wares of their trade, felt their words die in their lips, stunned. The raving lunatic, Dervenin, momentarily paused in his whispered, nonsensical mutterings.

City guards and citizens alike, from Thanes to beggars, turned as one towards the Temple of the Divines—each with the same thought racing through their minds: _what the devil was happening at the Moot?!_

* * *

Inside the temple, it was no different. The Jarls had heard the ungodly row outside the door, but no one wanted to see what was going on, for fear of being swept up in the battle that had erupted under their noses. No one wanted to be Shouted apart by a stray breath of Thu'um from Ulfric any more than they wanted to be smashed to a pulp under the weight of Varulf's immense shield.

Jarl Vignar of Whiterun was the most prominent of these people. The moment he'd heard the roar, he'd immediately felt as though he'd been transported to the Throat of the World. He felt the chill of Tamriel's topmost peak slicing through his body as he trembled with sudden fear.

For though he'd never seen it for himself—however content to dismiss the concerns of his guards as superstition and paranoia—the fact of the matter was that he was too revered within the Companions not to know what was going on. He'd been one of Kodlak's closest confidants, after all—he'd spent enough time in Jorrvaskr before the war to know what sort of people the Companions' most elite warriors were.

And now, he was beginning to understand that Varulf was no different from him.

His aide and faithful steward, Brill, turned to him, his balding, egg-shaped face filled with terror. "What's going on out there?" he whispered, as if worried he might be overheard.

Vignar was debating whether or not to tell him—and then the door to the Temple _shattered_ in its hinges.

Quite literally _shattered_ —what remained of the heavy oak that hadn't been smashed apart in the battle splintered into matchwood, littering the Temple with debris. A grayish-red blur, meanwhile, sailed through the door, crashing in front of the nine shrines of the Divines with a meaty thud that made even Jarl Skald wince where he stood.

Vignar, however, did not hear it—he'd already realized that that blur had been _the body of Ulfric Stormcloak_ —so battered and bloodied that he looked as though he'd been fighting a giant. But that was impossible, some part of him thought; Ulfric had been in control of this fight from the beginning! How, then, had—?!

He broke off as he heard a second set of footsteps come in—heavy and soft, not at all armored in the slightest. They were too heavy to be human footsteps—too far spaced apart to be walking a human pace.

Swallowing, Vignar did possibly the bravest thing he'd ever done in his life—and peered out from behind the pillar.

What he saw would be burned into his mind for the rest of his days as Jarl: a monstrous collection of flesh, fangs, and black fur, hunched over as to be bent almost double, yet still taller than any Nord he'd ever known in his life. Two arms were spread out in an attack stance, each sporting five claws that looked like they could tear steel plate asunder. Two legs planted themselves on the stone floor, one after another, slowly walking towards Ulfric—

The werewolf growled— _werewolf_ , thought a stunned Vignar, over and over again as if in a trance—and even this was enough to raise chills on the skin of all present, though the beast was nowhere near them. The other Jarls, Vignar saw, were torn between terror and confusion: what was this beast?! From where had it come?

But Vignar knew the answer. He happened to catch the eye of Jarl Dengeir, and something in his eye told him the old codger, too, had a growing suspicion himself.

"Do … it … "

Vignar almost didn't hear it; he'd been so occupied on the sudden appearance of the werewolf in their midst that the words nearly escaped his knowledge. Despite every instinct, he peered out from behind the pillar again, and felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Finish … it … "

The words were all the more unbelievable because Vignar had never heard Ulfric Stormcloak sound so _quiet_. Once, the Jarl of Windhelm had been a symbol of the future—a symbol of a Skyrim made free. He had the power, the charisma, and the voice—in more ways than one—to back it up, too.

Now, however, the power seemed to have fled his words. The personality of the man who had inspired an entire generation of freedom fighters was nowhere to be found—and the voice sounded like a child coming to terms with the fact that he'd lost a game of tag.

For the first time, Ulfric Stormcloak sounded _beaten_.

" _Did it make for a good song?_ "

The voice was husky, guttural. It was far from human—but there was just enough human in it to confirm to Varulf the truth he already knew.

" … aye … "

Silence.

" … Sing … it … "

More silence. Then, Vignar heard music in his ear, off-key and gravelly, like a rockslide heard from far away; the werewolf was _singing_. More amazingly still, the Jarl thought he'd heard the words from somewhere before:

_We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives_

_And when Sovngarde beckons, every one of us dies!_

Vignar heard a second, weaker, but even deeper voice join in.

_But this land is ours_ , Ulfric sang weakly, _and we'll see it wiped clean_

_Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams …_

An awful silence fell on the last word, and somehow Vignar knew what had happened before he stepped out from behind the pillar, ignoring the hushed whispers of Brill to come back to safety. But there was no further need for it, he knew—the battle was over.

Ulfric Stormcloak, the Jarl of Windhelm—the Bear of Markarth—was dead.

Varulf Blackmane, the Harbinger of the Companions—the _Wolf of Whiterun_ —was victorious.

* * *

There being no further use for the form, the black fur of the werewolf began to flatten and recede along its misshapen form. It straightened up along its spine, the wolf-like head beginning to blunt into a more rounded shape, the fangs receding into the gums, replaced by smaller, more squarish teeth.

Varulf let off a monumental sigh as he felt the influence of the beast leave him. He hadn't let it take full control of him; he'd still been human enough to see Ulfric flung like a ragdoll by the superhuman strength of the wolf, straight through the hole in the door he'd made earlier on, and skidding to a halt in front of the shrines of the Nine—his limbs broken, his spine shattered, and his skull fractured from the force of the impact against the half-destroyed door.

He'd been human enough to see that he hadn't landed under just any old shrine—but the new Shrine of Talos, recently installed by the priests of the Temple, at the insistence of the Jarl of Windhelm himself.

He'd been human enough to sing one last song with his friend-turned-foe, as though they were inside the warmth of Candlehearth Hall downing pint after pint of mead and swapping stories of glorious battle with the Imperial forces.

And he'd been human enough to see the peaceful look on Ulfric's face—as if rejecting the pain of his wounds—before finally succumbing to the embrace of Shor, and speeding for the great palace of Sovngarde.

Even in its state, the dense oak had proved fatal; as he reassumed his human form, Varulf saw the jagged splinter of wood protruding from the back of Ulfric's skull. The impact of his body against the floor had driven it into his brain; it was a miracle that it hadn't killed the man then and there. Perhaps it would be one more notch in the legend of Ulfric Stormcloak—whether it would be the final notch, Varulf now knew, would be the question.

For he had turned around to see the remaining eight jarls—nine, he now supposed, if Brunwulf was to be counted among them—standing in the aisle of the Temple, looking right at him. Their housecarls, stewards, and other aides were coming into view, though very slowly—as if reluctant to see the truth of what laid before them. Elenwen, Varulf noticed, was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she had seen the reality of the situation—understood that it had grown beyond her control—and so fled the Temple, no doubt to warn her ilk of what he had done.

Finally, Galmar and Ysrarald stepped out. The Stone-fist had crumbled; immediately, his eyes had flicked to Ulfric's body, and the former second-in-command of the Stormcloak forces now appeared stricken by what he saw.

He whirled upon Varulf, icy fury etched in his face, but the words could not come out—either from anger or grief; he was beyond words now, the Harbinger knew … perhaps beyond all reproach.

Nevertheless, Varulf knew, the deed had been done. The secret was out—he'd bared himself in body, mind, and soul to all of Skyrim. All that was left was to take matters into his hands.

"Galmar." He stepped forward, and the Stone-fist jumped at the sound of his name. "You will tell the sons and daughters of Skyrim what has happened here. If what I have done this day displeases them, they are free to go. I will not stop them, nor will they earn my retribution in deserting me. They may return to their husbands, their wives and children, and the lives they knew before this bloody war. But if they are prepared to fight for a new Skyrim—a _stronger_ Skyrim—then let them stand with me.

Galmar found his voice. "They will not stand with a _beast_!" he growled.

"They stood with Ulfric," Varulf said evenly. "What does that make him?"

It appeared as though Galmar could think of no answer to this. The ice in his eyes had thawed out completely, replaced by a molten rage that choked him to the core. He glared at the Harbinger for a few deadly moments longer, then tossed his battleaxe aside with an angry grunt, shattering a vase, before stalking out of the Temple. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced followed in his wake—not even daring to look at Varulf—and slamming the door behind him.

Choosing now to break the silence, Varulf got to his feet, staring around at the assembled Jarls. "All of you have seen my face before," he grunted. "But today, in this room, you have seen me bare the very depths of my heart and soul. You now know who I am … _what_ I am," he added heavily, feeling the double meaning in his words, hearing the Jarls mutter among themselves in confusion.

"Some have called the beast-blood of the Companions a blessing," he said. "Others have condemned it as a curse. And before I became the Harbinger, I believed them both to be true—a _blessing_ of great power … that was _cursed_ with a terrible price. But now, I see it as neither a blessing nor a curse … I see it as an _oath_ —my oath … to _you_."

The Jarls ceased their muttering.

"Well am I aware," said Varulf, his voice becoming gradually stronger, "that the Companions of Ysgramor have long stayed their hands from the secrets and whispers that come with politics. We believed—and believe to this day—to face our troubles with armor and blade … with honor and glory. But even Ysgramor could not return to Atmora. Our ancestral home succumbed to the eternal winters of the north. Even he knew when we as a people must bend to the winds of change."

No one spoke. Perhaps it was because no one could think of anything to say—or perhaps no one wanted to say anything, until they were certain the Harbinger had finished speaking his peace.

"And so," Varulf called out, letting his voice boom inside the stone chamber, "I swear my oath this day: that while the agents of the Thalmor continue to draw breath upon the world of Man, I—the Harbinger of Jorrvaskr, the chosen successor of the Five Hundred—will carry your burdens as I carry the beast within me. I will not part with its blood until the last soldier of the Dominion has been cut down by Nord steel. I will continue to embrace its spirit until the last bastion of the elves has been toppled by our strength!"

"Only then … when the battle is won, and our world is _free_ … shall I go to the hallowed grounds of Ysgramor's resting place—no longer a King, but a _man_ —one last time, for one last battle … that when the flame of my life, untainted by the spirit of the beast, is finally extinguished, I will behold the eyes of Shor in Sovngarde, and walk with good Kodlak and Ulfric, and all Nords who came before them, to the Hall of Valor … and my final reward!"

The echoes of his last words faded into a silence more total than any Varulf had heard in the Temple today. Already he could imagine the battles being waged in the minds of the Jarls before him: what was to be said about today? Would they tell the truth about what had happened—would Varulf be exposed as a werewolf, cast out as a pariah, before finally being executed and shamed in the history books as a traitor?

Varulf found he no longer cared. He'd done what he needed to—Ulfric was gone, and so was the Thalmor's hold on him. The Harbinger knew he might have made the final blow—but the mortal blow had been in the dossier he'd brought with him. It had been destroyed in Ulfric's Unrelenting Force—the pages torn from their bindings, scattered across the aisle, where everyone could read their damning words. Varulf, meanwhile, had made his point, and pled his case. All that was left was to accept the judgment of the men and women gathered here today.

"Aye."

Varulf started. Not only was this the last word he'd been expecting to hear—but it had come from the last person he'd been expecting to hear it from. Jarl Elisif the Fair didn't quite seem to believe it herself; her mouth was half-open, and she was mouthing soundlessly to herself, as if she wondered if that had really been her voice.

Nevertheless, the single word had broken the silence more thoroughly than Ulfric's Voice ever had today.

"Aye!" Jarl Vignar shouted, stepping forward. Varulf spun round to look at him, and found that Vignar's eyes were glittering strangely. The message in them was clear; Jorrvaskr would hear of this—but Skyrim, perhaps, would not.

"Aye!" rasped Skald the Elder, lapsing into a brief coughing fit immediately after. The floodgates were opening now, and Varulf's expression was growing more incredulous by the moment. Dengeir and Sorli had already weighed in with "Ayes" of their own, with Laila and Korir following soon after. Even Thongvor cast his vote in the affirmative—though he did so with extreme reticence; perhaps he knew he was simply outnumbered today.

At length, all eyes had flicked to the newest Jarl of Skyrim, gazing expectantly at him for an answer.

Brunwulf Free-Winter said nothing for a long time. He was gazing at Ulfric's bloodied body—at the peaceful expression worn on the face of his predecessor—and then, upwards slightly to the axe-like Shrine of Talos that framed the spot where he'd fallen. Then, his eyes traveled to Varulf—himself bloodied and bruised, and lacking most of his armor but for the scant furs the pitted plates had covered—

He sighed. "Aye."

And with that, Varulf knew there was no going back. Even as he heard Jarl Vignar announce the unanimous vote,, as if from miles away, he felt a numbness begin to consume him. For though he would shortly be High King, in accordance with tradition, he was not quite sure what to do next.

Yet even as all feeling disappeared from his body, Varulf felt a sudden uplifting, from somewhere deep within him. Was it the beast inside him, roaring in jubilation at having triumphed in a hunt that would be remembered in song throughout the ages? Or was it something else—perhaps a sign from Shor that all would be well; that Ulfric was even now looking down upon him from Sovngarde, waiting for him to make good on his vow?

Either way, the new High King felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The full repercussions of his actions would be felt for years to come, he knew—but for now, there was only one thought on his mind.

_I will be a betrayer …_

_… no longer._

* * *

_Somewhere in Solstheim_

Many miles away from the site of the Moot, under the mask of the dragon priest Morokei, Grimnir Torn-Skull's one remaining eye narrowed as some sixth sense hummed to life in his mind. There was nothing to suggest what might have happened to cause this—nor where it had happened, or when.

But though he would not receive the news for at least one more week, Grimnir instinctively knew from that feeling, at that moment, that things would never be the same again.

_We cannot go back._

He did not pause in his step as he headed southward towards the gigantic mushrooms in the distance, nor did he bow his head in solemnity. But his mind had already begun to turn and gather speed, and in a fleeting moment, he remembered the bargain Varulf had struck with him, shortly before embarking on the journey that would come to change Skyrim—and all of Tamriel—forever.

And then, Grimnir remembered the words of Carlovac Townway, written on his account of the final year of the First Era, when the great machine of Sotha Sil had subtly, irreversibly transformed under the watchful eye of its master.

_It cannot be fixed now._

He looked up into the sky, past the clouds of ash that still belched from Vvardenfell, two hundred years on. Masser and Secunda could barely be seen within them, and only a few of the brightest stars were visible. It was midnight.

_This is the beginning of the end_ , he knew.

_These are the last years of the Fourth Era …_

* * *

_CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT – INTERNAL USE ONLY_

_SUBJECT: VARULF BLACKMANE_

_Status: Active (Hostile, Monitor Only), High Priority, Emissary-level Approval_

_Description: High King of Skyrim, Harbinger of the Companions, veteran of Stormcloak rebellion_

_Background: No appreciable information on subject prior to Stormcloak uprising, but interrogations suggest he was a native of Bruma in his youth before leaving for Skyrim and joining the Companions of Jorrvaskr in Whiterun. Rose quickly through Ulfric's ranks before eventually becoming a high-ranking officer (Stormblade)._

_During the Moot of 4E 203 (see report), subject suddenly confronted Ulfric and slew him in a challenge to battle. First Emissary Elenwen served as eyewitness to the events and attempted to intervene, but was unsuccessful. Subject was subsequently elected as High King in Ulfric's place. First Emissary received formal reprimand._

_Operational Notes:_ _SUBJECT HAS BEEN CONFIRMED AS A CLASS C POLYMORPH (WEREWOLF)_ _. Engage with extreme caution._

_Confirmed to be in direct contact with Target One_ _(see file). Suspect Target One relayed classified information on Ulfric Stormcloak to subject that directly influenced the events of the Moot (see report on Embassy break-in of 4E 201), and indirectly compromised our overall position in Skyrim as well (prolonging the provincial uprising, as is well known, was crucial to our success; however, the death of a reliable, if dormant, source of information was unforeseen and further detrimental to our cause)._

_Negotiation with subject is inadvisable, except in the most extreme circumstances_ _. Proximity to Target One has rendered subject anticipating of our methods, and generally uncooperative to our persuasion. However, subject will continue to be monitored pending further developments in the years to come. The continued existence of this man is an affront to us all. Any pertinent developments are to be immediately forwarded to an Emissary-level operative._

* * *

**A/N: KRIF HAAL GRAAN (Fight, Hand, Rout) – Imbues the** **_Thu'um_ ** **within the caster's arms, giving them unparalleled physical strength for a period of time.**

**Thanks for reading! – K**


	3. Pure Corruption

_None know your nature;_

_save Us._

_None share your fate;_

_save Us._

_None welcome you as kin;_

_save Us._

– Excerpt from the _Manifesto Cyrodiil Vampyrum_

* * *

I

Today kept on getting stranger and stranger for Mistress Malys.

Only hours ago—a short time into what had started as a trip to Morthal—She had encountered an Imperial by the name of Venarus Vulpin, who had been on the hunt for what he had called "a vampire artifact" buried deep in the heart of the Pale, in the ruins of Dimhollow Crypt. He had, naturally, turned out to be a vampire himself.

This had not shocked Malys at all—as a dark elf who'd managed to contract both Sanguinare Vampiris _and_ Poryphilic Hemophilia while fleeing Morrowind during the Red Year some two hundred years ago, it was not difficult for Her to sense another fellow bloodsucker.

What _had_ shocked Her was that Venarus Vulpin was already long dead.

Unbeknownst to Her, he had been killed long before they'd ever met, and by yet another vampire at that—this one, an Imperial called Carmilla Anglinius. This was even more surprising, as Malys had had some previous dealings with her father Lucius—a fanatical priest of Meridia who despised all manner of the undead, from the lowliest of _draugr_ to the highest-blooded of vampires. Most shockingly of all, this Carmilla seemingly possessed the ability to masquerade as anyone she met, male or female. The ease with which she had demonstrated this unsettling power mere minutes ago made Malys wonder if the tall, stately blonde currently standing a few feet to her left was actually Carmilla's true form.

And then there had emerged the revelation behind the mysterious thief who'd just hunted down them both like a fox. Malys had crossed paths with Rolega the Quiet, too, in her days with the College of Winterhold—back when She'd known the silent, skull-faced Nord as merely a former associate of the Thieves Guild. What had preceded that moment had also been a cavalcade of surprises as well—not least of which was that she was _also_ the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, the deadliest assassins in all of Tamriel, and who'd claimed responsibility for the murders of Maven Black-Briar, Emperor Titus Mede II, and just about every high-profile death of the past four years.

Yet even these paled to the sight Mistress Malys was seeing right now: Her first glimpse of the "vampire artifact" that Venarus— _no_ , Carmilla, Her mind corrected—had spoken of, and unveiled just seconds ago.

"Ugh … where is … who sent you here?"

The Nord—who'd been sealed inside the stone monolith Carmilla had just ripped apart with her vampiric strength—had tumbled out with a groan a few seconds ago, and was only just now rising to her feet, brushing dust off various effects and parts of her body with clawed black gloves: a charcoal velvet cape; a black, tightly laced corset; a large, ornately decorated scroll strapped to her back, and eyes with the color and intensity of highly polished garnets.

Mistress Malys didn't need to be a vampire to know what She was looking at right now—but something was … _off_ about this woman. The blood flowing through the stranger's veins was like nothing She'd ever sensed before. It was older, more powerful … and yet, for all this, this blood felt strangely similar to Hers.

Carmilla scoffed, holding one hand on her hip, while the other leaned on her eerie black staff. " _This_ is our artifact?" she said disbelievingly. "A _woman?!_ "

Malys shook Her head, shaking bits of pulverized stone out of Her short black hair. "No. Look at her eyes," She replied. "She's just the same as us, no doubt about it." Her fiery eyes were once again drawn to the gleaming scroll.

"So you're vampires too, huh?" said the woman, huffing a strand of hair out of her face—much like Malys', short and black, though woven into several complicated knots at the scalp. The vampire looked and sounded much more bored than anyone who'd just been dug up from a sealed stone coffin ought to be. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised they'd send some after me."

Her glowing eyes then narrowed. "Oh—because I _know_ you're going to ask about the giant thing on my back"—she thumbed over her shoulder to the object in question—"yes, it's an Elder Scroll. And no, you can't have it."

Malys' jaw nearly hit the stone floor. _Did I just hear that right?!_

Carmilla, too, looked surprised to hear this. " _That's_ one of the Elder Scrolls?!" she gaped. "How did you come by that? The Order tried to steal one ages ago, but the Empire's security was impossible to penetrate, even for us!"

It was the woman's turn to look surprised. " … I'm sorry, what?" she asked. "What Order? … What Empire?"

_What?!_ Malys mouthed the words in confusion, and then answered, " … The Empire," at the same time as Carmilla replied, " … The Order." They looked at each other, mystified, and Carmilla then added, " … From Cyrodiil?" in a tone that suggested she was just as nonplussed as Malys was right now.

The woman's next response did little to calm the rising headaches for the two vampires. "Cyrodiil's the seat of an Empire?" she asked, scratching her head. "Hm. I must have been gone longer than I thought," she shrugged. "Definitely longer than we'd planned for."

_Long, nothing_ , Malys thought in amazement. She knew a little bit about the history of the Empire and its origins—all three of them, actually. The first Empire, the Alessian Empire—had been named after its first ruler, Saint Alessia, who ruled until her death midway through the second century of the First Era.

Which meant this woman was _over four thousand years old_.

"This changes everything," the woman was saying. "I need to get home, now—I need to find my family, figure out what's happened."

But Malys had had enough with all the surprise and mystery. "Now wait just a minute," She spoke up. "There's something you're not telling us. Why were you locked in here? Why do you have an Elder Scroll with you?"

For the first time, the woman's aloof expression faltered, and suddenly she looked rather small against the monolith she'd been entombed in; she was actively avoiding Malys' gaze.

"That's … a little complicated," she replied, after a protracted period of awkward silence. "And I'm not entirely sure I can trust you two with the gory details."

_Two?_ Malys looked around, and felt a shiver creep down Her spine when She noticed that Rolega was no longer here, having apparently disappeared under the noses of three fully-grown vampires. How, exactly, was anyone's guess—vampires were no slouch at sniffing out their prey—but if assassins and thieves had their own methods of escape, the few who could be both likely had better means of doing so at their disposal. The assassin must have fled, She decided, and so She turned back to hear what the woman had to say.

"Look, just … just worry about taking me back to my family for right now," she went on. "Maybe if all goes well, I can tell you more after that."

Malys exchanged a questioning glance with Carmilla, trying not to look at the milky white orb that was the Imperial's left eye, and the purple hook-shaped sigil tattooed over it.

" … Fine." Malys could sense the changeling wasn't too happy about the decision. "Where do we need to go?"

"My family lives on a remote island a ways west of Solitude," said the woman. "At least, I hope they still live there. You could probably chart a ferry. Unless you really like to swim."

Carmilla did not blink. "We'll find a boat," she said flatly.

The Nord suddenly extended a hand, as if she'd forgotten about it all this time. "My name's Serana, by the way," she said to Carmilla. "I'd say 'Good to meet you,' but you don't exactly strike me as the social type."

She turned to Malys. "And _you_ … well, let's just say I don't want to raise any old ghosts on your part."

"Carmilla Anglinius," said the Imperial. She did not return the offered handshake, and kept on smiling a smile that could have shriveled scathecraw.

"Mistress Malys," the Dunmer introduced Herself, shaking Serana's hand, not wanting to appear offended by her less-than-cordial greeting. "And what do you mean by that, Serana?"

The glowing eyes were fixed entirely on Her. "That if there's anything you're happier not knowing," Serana replied, "you'll go your own way, and you won't ever have to see my face or my family again."

Malys shook Her head. "I don't think so," She said defiantly, crossing Her arms to look more intimidating. "I don't like admitting it, but I'm probably the youngest vampire here. I've still got a lot to learn about Myself. Who better to help Me than another, older vampire?" _Much,_ much _older_ , She added to Herself.

Serana stared back at Malys with one of the loudest silences She'd ever experienced. "Your funeral," she shrugged, before turning away from them. "Let's go, then. This place looks different from when I was locked away, but I'm pretty good with direction. Give me a chance to stretch my legs, we'll find a way out soon enough."

And without any further preamble, Serana walked away from the monolith that had been her prison for Azura only knew how long. Carmilla and Malys were both left dumbstruck by what had happened here that it was several moments before it occurred that Serana might not be waiting up for either of them.

"I was hoping I'd find a bargaining chip," Carmilla groused as they hurried after the ancient vampire, "but I didn't expect that bargaining chip to be able to walk and talk!"

"Bargaining chip?" Malys repeated. Carmilla was certainly a hard one to read, she thought. "Just who are you? Why are you here?"

Carmilla drew in closer to Malys, as if she was about to relay a closely kept secret.

"Lately, there's been a shift in the wind," she whispered. "The Volkihar clan is becoming bolder, more active. Recently they've even started attacking townsfolk. I'm not sure what they're getting at, but whatever it is, it's big. Then I heard that the Vigil had unearthed some vampire artifact, I thought that if I found it, I'd have an in with the Volkihar, and they'd cut me in on their plans."

Malys arched an eyebrow. _Not only a complete enigma, but ambitious as well,_ She thought with combined appreciation and apprehension. This Imperial was definitely someone to keep an eye on.

"And Rolega?" She ventured, anxious to know more about the equally enigmatic assassin. "What did she want with you?"

A sneer worked its way across Carmilla's face, and the violet tattoo curled imperceptibly around her left eye, like a snake tensing to strike.

"Let's just say my father wouldn't know a lost cause if it took his head off."

* * *

True to her word, Serana was indeed good with direction, and the trio of vampires soon found themselves feeling the frigid air of the Pale on their face. Of course, it was frigid only by the standards of the more _lively_ denizens of Skyrim; to the undead, the change in temperature was almost unnoticeable.

Serana, and Carmilla more so, had remained largely silent after their exchange in the cavern where the Nord had been entombed. It wasn't until they started their trek north to Dawnstar that Serana finally spoke up.

"You're not like me … are you?" she asked. "You're vampires, I could tell just by smelling you—you're just not _Volkihar_ vampires."

"Is that supposed to mean anything?" Carmilla asked testily. "I'm a Cyrodiil vampire, sure—but what's it to you?"

Serana said nothing. Malys, however, was pleasantly surprised by this news—that must have been what Carmilla was talking about when she had mentioned "the Order." She had heard only rumors and conjecture about the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order since regaining Her memories; members of that particular bloodline kept largely to themselves, and were highly manipulative and deceitful.

If She was honest, that described the Imperial to a proverbial T. Still … "I don't think even the Volkihar can change their face and form the way you can, Carmilla."

Carmilla grinned. "My being a vampire has nothing to do with it." She brandished her black staff, holding the horned, mutilated skull that adorned it close to Her face. "I follow the Daedra Vaermina—the Prince of dreams and nightmares. She gifted me with her Skull of Corruption, to collect dreams and add them to her collection. That's how I shapeshift," she explained, twirling the artifact around her palm. "Vaermina can mold dreams, but I can let _them_ mold _me_ into anything—or anyone—I wish."

This information took Malys aback. She'd not heard much of Vaermina—indeed, She could not recall anyone ever worshipping her back home in Morrowind. _As if she wasn't enough of a mystery_ , the Dunmer thought to herself.

"You're pretty outspoken for a Cyrodiil," Serana said from just ahead of them. "I always thought they were a little more … _discreet_ over there."

"That's about why they declared me a traitor," replied Carmilla with a nonchalant shrug. "Change your face all you want, but having a Daedric artifact tends to make you stick out like a sore thumb. The Order knew that, and one day they decided to … well, cut their losses."

Malys remembered what Rolega had told them earlier. "By killing you," She guessed.

Carmilla's smirk grew wider. "Well, I gave them credit for trying."

She was oddly nonchalant for someone who had an entire guild of powerful undead after her head, Malys decided. It was hard for Her to tell if this was confidence—or complacency.

They walked in silence for some time. By the time Serana spoke up again, the trees had begun to clear, and the faintest ribbon of cobblestones—the road that led north to Dawnstar—could be seen through the snow.

"I still think you're making a mistake coming with me, Malys," said the ancient vampire.

Malys growled under Her breath. "I told you, my name is _Mistress_ Malys," She corrected her without thinking.

What happened next was very fast. Serana moved like black lightning, spinning Her around with surprising strength. Her free hand then moved towards Her throat, but Serana's claws did not close around it— _claws?!_

Malys blinked. No, she wasn't seeing things; the arm that Serana had reached out with was not a human arm. Gone was the pale, near-alabaster skin of the vampire; now, the skin of the arm was as deathly gray as Malys' own, like basalt from the Red Mountain. And three other things had caught Mistress Malys' eye: firstly: the fingers of that monstrous arm terminated in wicked-looking talons that could no doubt slice Her to ribbons. The thought of the pain an injury like that could cause made Her squirm.

Secondly, those talons were now beginning to glow with an unholy reddish-orange color, like fire and blood.

Thirdly, her throat was beginning to feel a little tight …

Malys realized what was going on just as a sudden, invisible _something_ latched onto Her throat and pulled Her forward and off the ground. _Telekinesis_ , thought a small part of Her. She'd heard that the College of Winterhold only taught that spell to its most advanced students in the school of alteration—and Malys had seen it performed several times in the past. But even then, it had only been on inanimate objects, mere scraps of metal—sometimes heavier objects, to be sure, but never _living_ things.

Yet that was exactly what Serana was doing now—and as she looked at the ancient vampire, Mistress Malys noticed that a change had come over her. Before, Serana had been somewhat of a mystery—one moment cool and collected, almost to a fault; the next moment, shy and reserved. Guarded, even.

Now, the mystery was dispelled. There was no mistaking the raw, unrefined rage behind that face.

"Just so we're clear," Serana hissed, fangs bared and eyes blazing, "I'm four thousand years older than you—and I think I know ten times more about vampires than both of you combined." She squeezed her hand a little, and Malys choked out a sudden cry of pain as the tightness in Her throat constricted Her further still. "I don't think either of you—who just met me an hour ago—have any right to act like you're better than _me_."

Malys' eyes were beginning to roll over in Her skull, and the edges of Her vision were starting to turn grey. She frantically tried to scrabble out of the stranglehold of Serana—to try and resist this—

And then, quite suddenly, it was gone. The invisible force left Her throat, and Mistress Malys tumbled to the ground in a heap. She could not feel Her body, but as She gulped in several grateful breaths, the numbness left Her, and She stared up at Serana with eyes that betrayed much more than She wanted to.

For the first time in a long while, Mistress Malys was _scared_. Her whole body was trembling out of abject _fear_ of this ancient vampire. Up until now, She had believed Herself to be unique—a rare but powerful hybrid vampire who could take more than blood from Her kill, and take more than life from that blood.

But today, She had never felt more out of Her league. And yet, for some strange reason, through the terror that coursed through her body like some icy substitute for blood—Malys had never felt more _excited_.

Serana, meanwhile, had finally stepped away. The fire had died out in her eyes, which were actively avoiding Her once again. The clawed, rock-gray arm was now human again, and Serana rubbed at the limb as if it had been stung.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," she said softly, almost whispering. "I don't like showing that side of me."

Without another word, she turned around and headed north up the road to Dawnstar. "Let's … let's just go."

Carmilla watched her go while Malys continued to catch Her breath. "I saw that," the Imperial said airily.

Malys didn't immediately hear her. "What?"

The changeling's right eye stared intensely at Her. "Deep down—you _enjoyed_ that, didn't you?" Carmilla asked. "You liked the feeling of pissing yourself in _fear_."

Malys sprang to Her feet, forgetting all about Serana. "What did you say?" She hissed, baring Her fangs at the vampire.

But Carmilla was not fazed. "All your life you've given and taken pleasure," she whispered. "Now you're giving and taking _pain_ as well?" She smirked. "You've got a sick mind, _Mistress_ Malys."

The Dunmer was confused—and not a little offended at the insinuation, either. "What are you talking about?"

"When you knew me as Venarus Vulpin, you told your life story to me," replied Carmilla. "You didn't tell me _everything_ , though."

Malys knew what she was implying. So elated had She been to find a fellow vampire that She'd spilled Her guts almost from the first moment she'd met Venarus, and continued doing so throughout the whole of Dimhollow Crypt en route to finding Serana. Malys had spoken of her upbringing in Suran, where She'd worked at a pleasure house as a "special request". She'd spoken of fleeing from the eruption of Vvardenfell, and seducing an Ashlander for the maps She'd needed—only for the Ashlander to reveal himself as a vampire of the Quarra clan by biting Her. She'd spoken of resettling in Windhelm, only to be bitten _again_ , this time by a Volkihar—then run out of town after Her promiscuous habits had landed Her in even more trouble.

And She'd spoken of Her adventures in Winterhold two hundred years hence, plumbing Dwarven ruins with no less a person than the legendary Dragonborn, and finally discovering the powers granted to Her from possessing two strains of vampirism.

She regretted speaking of all this now, of course—had Malys known who She'd really been telling her life story to, Her mouth would have stayed shut the whole trip through that crypt. Nevertheless, Carmilla had a point: She'd been wise enough that She hadn't told that Imperial _everything_ —certainly nothing about such a relationship with pleasure and pain as Malys had had described to Her.

_So how does she know?!_

"We all have our secrets, Carmilla," She eventually said, to feel her out and give Herself time to think. "What's it to you if you don't know everything about Me?"

The changeling twirled the Skull of Corruption in her hand. "When I use Vaermina's power, I don't always get a _face_ for my trouble," she replied cryptically.

The hook-shaped tattoo around her left eye faded, and for just a moment, Malys thought She saw Her own face staring back from where Carmilla's should have been. There was a hint of the cleft that ran from Her forehead to her chin, Her blood-red eyes and ashy gray skin—even Her own black hair, shorn off at the neck.

Then, as swiftly as it had come, the apparition was gone, and the blonde-haired, gaunt face of the Imperial (if indeed that was her original one) was staring back at Malys—tattoo, milky-white left eye and all—with a knowing smile.

" _Fear_ , Malys." Long fingers stroked the horns adorning her Skull of Corruption. "To an acolyte of Vaermina, the fear of any mortal is more _savory_ and _scrumptious_ than all the blood in the world. And to me … you're a _feast_."

Carmilla's good eye flicked downward for only a split second. Then, that smile of hers widened just a little, and she walked off in Serana's wake, leaving behind a very confused Mistress Malys.

At least, She _was_ confused until She chanced a glance downward Herself, and was finally aware of Her own shaking legs, wobbling weakly at the knees as if She'd just made love several times on end. She was also aware of a strange, faint tingling sensation below Her waist, almost as if …

_No_ , Malys thought, as Her finger reached out to touch, and She withdrew Her arm quickly. _I'd better not find out for Myself_ , She added grudgingly, as She hurried after Carmilla and Serana.

_And I'd rather not make her think she's_ right.

* * *

_Dawnstar_

Even so, Malys noticed a slight spring in Her step by the time the three vampires made it to Dawnstar, a small, sleepy little town on the northern shores of Skyrim that looked one storm away from getting blown off the map. Carmilla took the lead here, as she mentioned to Malys that she'd been through here before, and was therefore the most familiar with the lay of the land.

As they walked across the shoreline, looking for a promising boat to sail on, Malys felt a chill wrap around Her that didn't feel like it had to do with the cold coming in from the Sea of Ghosts. The sudden feeling of cheer had vanished with it, too; when she mentioned this to Carmilla, the Imperial nodded knowingly.

"When I first came here," she explained in a hushed whisper, pausing briefly as a guard strode by with a torch, "the town was under a spell. Everyone was having strange nightmares. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for how strong they felt to the townsfolk. They all swore blind that the nightmares were real, and that they'd been cursed."

"Were they?" Serana asked. "Real, I mean."

Carmilla shrugged. "No more than your average nightmare—but no less potent for it. Anyway, a priest of Mara roped me into investigating the sources, and he said they were manifestations of Vaermina's power."

_Vaermina_. Malys felt that chill rising up Her spine again. "What was causing the nightmares?" She wanted to know—although part of Her suspected She already knew.

And sure enough, Carmilla was smirking again. "The same thing," she answered, as casually as if discussing today's weather, "that lets me see your dreams."

Malys felt the chill redouble in its intensity. That was _not_ the answer She had been expecting. "What … did you see?" She demanded, unable to keep the faintest of shivers out of Her voice.

"The same thing _I_ want," Carmilla replied back. She was no longer smiling. "The same thing we _all_ want," she added, giving a knowing glance at Serana. The Nord had turned back, piqued at the Imperial's words, and was giving Carmilla a very strange look indeed.

Malys couldn't blame her. She was becoming less and less sure about this vampire with each passing moment … and now that She knew what she'd meant from their _pain-and-pleasure_ talk, less and less _fond_ of her as well. The Dunmer fervently hoped they would be going their separate ways after seeing Serana off to her old home.

"What happened to the priest?" Even as Serana asked the question, she didn't look like she wanted to find out.

Nor did Malys, truth be told, but the Imperial's face was already changing again. This time, her new face had assumed elements of a Dunmer in his prime, complete with facial hair and almond-shaped eyes that glinted like rubies. Once again, the face was only there for a moment before reforming into Carmilla's usual appearance.

Throughout all of this latest transformation, the Imperial never spoke a word. Nor did she need to; the implications of her actions were enough to make Malys shudder.

She would _definitely_ be happy to see the back of this vampire for good.

* * *

_Haafingar_

For now, though, Malys would have to endure an agonizingly long boat ride along the northern shoreline, Carmilla at her side. Serana had managed to find a ferryman waiting at the far edge of town, his rickety transport dwarfed by the larger cargo ships that _very_ occasionally made port in Dawnstar. No one had inquired about how much gold the trip had cost, or even if Serana had paid any toll at all—vampires were known for getting their way in the end.

Nevertheless, the ferryman, Harlaug, didn't seem to enjoy their company too much. Malys had to wonder if he suspected they might be vampires, if it had something to do with the coldness of the air, or if it was just because no one had spoken a word ever since the three women had boarded his rickety little boat. Whatever the case, the journey westward was not one that Malys was keen to remember again.

Even seeing the majestic cliffs that formed the foundations of Solitude—the capital city of Skyrim, no matter what the Stormcloaks might claim—was not enough to rouse any inspiration or awe within the three vampires. And the immense boat that lay anchored at the delta didn't help matters at all—at least, not for Malys. Only the Emperor of Tamriel would have any need of a ship that enormous—and he was dead. Killed for reasons known only to his killer—and whoever had told her to kill him.

Malys raised Her cowl over Her eyes, and did not lower it until She was absolutely sure that the ship had vanished from sight. She wanted nothing more to do with Rolega the Quiet—in Her mind, the assassin was just as mysterious as Carmilla, and therefore just as untrustworthy.

How long they sailed on in silence, no one knew. But at length, Malys suddenly heard a grinding noise from under the boat. The craft shuddered to a halt, and Malys noticed they'd run aground on a jetty, a stone's throw from a crumbling fort on the shoreline, and several feet away from what appeared to be a rotted pile of wood. The entire area was shrouded in a thick mist.

She frowned—had the ferryman meant to stop here?

"What is it?" Carmilla asked.

Harlaug rose from his seat with a huff, and several joints creaked. "This is as far as I'm going," he blustered. "I don't rightly know why you want to go to this place, and I don't intend to sit around and find out. That place is cursed. The only sailors what draw near that island have a death wish something fierce. Insane."

Serana said nothing. Carmilla, meanwhile, had her hands on her hips and sported a jaunty smile. "Are you questioning _our_ sanity?" she asked.

Harlaug did not smile back. "The thought had occurred," he replied. "But I'd have the cold over you three any day of the week." He sat back down, and grabbed his oars. "I'm headed back to Dawnstar. You can find your own way back."

And before anyone could say anything, he'd sat back in his boat, and shoved off the shoreline—his eyes never once leaving the three women, even as he disappeared beyond the horizon.

Only when he was lost to sight did Carmilla speak up. "So what?" she asked Serana. "We just swim from here? That boat looks older than you."

She pointed to what Malys had thought was a decomposing pile of driftwood, and then, realization hit Her like a warhammer to the face. There was no way in a hundred eras that this pile of flotsam had ever been seaworthy.

However … "I don't think we have a choice," She finally said after a long while. "This far up north, the water could probably freeze fire if it tried. Vampires like us … best not to try."

And feeling slightly reckless, Mistress Malys made for the boat. How the collection of moldering wood didn't break apart in Her hands was a mystery, but She took it as a good sign. There must be some kind of magic holding it all together, She decided as She climbed in—not daring to look at Carmilla as She did so.

Then Serana stepped in, carrying a pair of oars that were almost as rotten as the boat. These she thrust out to Malys, before she settled into the bow of the craft. "You'll need my eyes to get you there," she said shortly.

The Dunmer thought briefly of pawning them off to Carmilla, but the Imperial had already squeezed into the aft section of the boat to operate the tiller. Sighing inwardly in resignation, Malys followed suit, plunking Herself between the women with a dangerous creak of timber.

As She pushed off from the shore, and began to row due north, Her eyes met Carmilla's. They were staring directly at Her—even the blind left one didn't seem to be blinking. Malys stared right back at the changeling. She didn't want to let her out of Her sight for even a second—not until it became clear what this woman wanted with both Her and Serana.

* * *

They floated in the mist for a very long while. Twice Malys wondered if they had gotten lost on the way over. But it was almost as if the boat was sailing of its own accord; Carmilla was at the tiller, doing absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, the clouds of mist parted, and the three vampires were suddenly faced with a massive construction of stone that could have swallowed Winterhold in a gulp—not merely the College, but the rest of the town with it. The parapets of the fortress were lost to sight in the clouds. There was no sign of habitation to be found.

"Castle Volkihar," Serana said quietly. "Doesn't look like my family redecorated while I was gone."

Malys thought that was putting it mildly—it didn't look like anyone had lived there for a very long time. Hundreds of years, certainly—possibly even longer than she'd been alive.

There was a rough rustling of wood against wet sand as the boat finally ran aground, right in front of a cobblestone bridge that made a beeline for the castle. Multiple gargoyles—more of the same they'd seen in Dimhollow, and half as tall again as any of the three women—flanked either side of the massive construction.

Carmilla looked at the stone figures with apprehension as they walked up the road. "It feels like they're looking at us … " she said uneasily.

Malys was about to tell her off, but Her gaze had lingered upon one of the stone creatures for only a moment, and yet She thought that one of its black eyes was indeed staring back at them.

They'd gone halfway across the bridge when Serana suddenly came to a halt, and spoke again. "Hold on."

Malys stopped. "What is it?"

"I … wanted to thank you for getting me this far," Serana told them. She was averting her eyes from them again. "But after we get in there, I'm going to go my own way for a while. I think … " But she trailed off at this.

"What is it?" Carmilla asked impatiently. "Why tell us this now?"

"I just … need to be alone for a while after we get there," said Serana haltingly. "I've got a lot of feelings wrapped up in this old place, and I don't think you're quite ready for them. So let me … take the lead once we're inside."

The way that she'd said "take the lead" made Malys more than a little apprehensive. "Should we expect a fight?"

"Mm." Serana shook her head. "There are plenty of covens out there that want us dead, simply because of who we are. Maybe you're part of them, maybe you're not—but I think you're capable of showing a little more restraint than that." Her garnet gaze suddenly flicked in Carmilla's direction.

The Imperial didn't fail to notice, even with only one eye. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she said irritably.

Serana sighed as she resumed her trek towards the castle. "Just stay quiet once we get in. I'll handle any talking."

As they hurried to keep in step, Malys heard the first sign of habitation within this forbidding place. "Lady Serana's returned!" hollered out a voice from above, a Nord—and an old one, by the quaver in his words. "Open the gate!"

" _Lady_ , huh?" Carmilla grinned from alongside her. "I might still have a chance here."

Malys jabbed her in the ribs, _shush_ ing her.

The trio of vampires squeezed through the small door beyond the iron gate, and it closed behind them of its own accord with an echoing _boom_.

* * *

Malys, unfortunately, had no time to get adjusted to the interior of the castle. She caught only a glimpse of rock-carved walls that looked as dank and eroded as they did on the outside, of torches that flickered and cast forbidding shadows on the worn stone blocks—before Serana drove a fist right into Her chest. A thump and an angry hiss of breath told Her that Carmilla had been treated likewise.

Malys moved to retort, but Serana's eyes were round as septims, and focused elsewhere—namely, at the high elf striding towards them with purpose in every step, and anger in his burning eyes.

"How dare you trespass here!" shouted the new arrival, preparing a spell to blast them to kingdom come. Malys tensed, feeling the first crystals of frost magic on her hands to respond in kind.

But before She had the change to create a single snowflake, the high elf had stopped, barely a few feet away from the trio, and his eyes were just as wide as Serana's had been just now.

"Wait … " he whispered, almost reverently, taking another dangerous pace closer. "Serana? Is that truly you? I cannot believe my eyes!"

Serana did not speak.

Instantly, however, a change had come over the Altmer vampire; apparently, he knew full well whom he was talking to. He stiffened, looking for all Nirn like someone's butler—albeit a butler dressed in spiky, roughly cut leather—as he turned on his heel. Wordlessly, Serana gestured to Malys and Carmilla, indicating they should follow him.

They didn't have long to walk. A stone balcony was only a small number of paces away, overlooking a large banquet hall lit by more torches. Malys heard voices inside, close on to half a dozen, possibly more—although some of them sounded more bestial than human.

"My lord! Everyone!" the Altmer announced. "Serana has returned!"

A silence immediately fell over the entire hall. "Hm. I guess I'm expected," Serana remarked. Carmilla looked faintly intrigued, and Malys as well—She imagined all the people inside this place were suddenly looking right up at the balcony they were heading towards, in anticipation of Serana's return.

Had all these people been awaiting her, Malys wondered, after she'd been away for so long?

But every single question in Her mind was suddenly driven aside when She heard who was speaking.

"My long-lost daughter returns at last. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?"

Malys only had a moment to register the velvet-smooth baritone that echoed in the hall—even though a moment was all she needed.

The next thing She knew, a lance of pain had sliced its way down the cleft in the middle of Her face. The sensation was brief, but vivid—enough that Malys instantly clapped a hand to Her brow.

Carmilla would have been blind in both eyes not to notice. "What is it?" There was just enough worry in her voice to show the closest thing to genuine concern a vampire could display. "Are you okay?"

No. She was not okay. The last time that Malys' head had pained Her so, She had learned much more about Herself than she had dreamed was possible. Back then, she had still been Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu—naïve, immoral Malys Aryon—that side of Her who'd emerged from that forgotten cavern, and made Her way to Winterhold with bare fragments of her memories left to her, unknowing of the power that a two-hundred-year-old slumber had not managed to completely suppress …

_That voice …_

But those memories inevitably began to return, and so they had, one fateful day: Malys had learned the truth of herself in a Dwarven ruin whose name had been lost to time. Malys Aryon had died that day—perhaps she had even died two hundred years ago. Now, there was only Mistress Malys—a vampire of pleasure and pain, of cold heart and colder magic …

_I know that voice …_

Not all of Her memories had come back, however; some parts of Her past yet remained unknown … but She had come to terms with this … She had hoped to live Her new life, happier not to know what more She had endured …

Faintly, She saw Carmilla pull away, confused; one of the saner parts of Her pondered if She'd spoken that out loud.

"After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me?" Serana might as well have stood on the other side of Skyrim, so far away was the sound of her voice. "Yes, I have the Scroll."

"Of course," said the unseen male. "I'm delighted to see—" But he'd trailed off here, and it was apparent to everyone there why he had been distracted.

Malys, in spite of the continuing surges of pain that plagued Her face, had managed to make it to the balustrade that overlooked the grand hall. She now beheld a sight no mortal eye could ever have wished to see in their lifetime.

_Vampires_. More vampires than had been seen in one place. Some were feasting on bloody dishes, piled with meat and bones; others were stroking the ridged backs of dogs that only looked like such animals—for no dogs could ever possess such shadow-black fur or many-fanged maws—while still others lounged about with people in rags that a corner of Malys' mind knew had to be thralls, from the slow, ungainly way they moved hither and thither to serve their undead masters.

Yet there was only one undead master that She had her eyes on—and it had just locked eyes with her.

"You?!"

The man, resplendent in clothes not unlike Serana's, had risen from his throne-like chair in the middle of the center table. His black hair, slicked back to reveal the full of his brow, gleamed in the dim torchlight like refined ebony. High cheekbones were set below eyes as fiery as those of the Nord She'd helped to rescue, connected by a black beard so meticulous that not a single hair looked out of place.

That beard now looked nothing so much as a perfect letter O, framing an open mouth that exposed just enough teeth to reveal the tips of his long fangs.

" … You?" Carmilla was looking around. For the first time since Malys had met her, she looked quite perplexed, evidently not anticipating this turn of events.

And neither had Malys. For she did indeed know the voice she had just heard, but she had never believed she would hear it again …

* * *

_—She held out Her tin, starving and begging desperately for septims, but the nords either ignored Her or shoved Her out of their path; it had been a slow day today, She had not had company in so long, and She constantly wondered how She had been reduced to this—_

It had been two hundred years ago, that fateful night in Windhelm. Even the harsh reality of being a stranger in a foreign land—an immigrant of circumstances beyond Her control—had not dulled the lessons Helviane Desele had taught her long ago, in her House of Earthly Delights. Malys knew how to excite the senses of men, elves, and beast-folk alike—even the more extreme of sensations that offended the senses of more conservative folk.

She'd used those lessons again, this time to live for Herself, and not for Her family. And for a time, life was good—until the night that everything had changed—when the pain had come once again—

_—one of Her regulars came up to the slum where She made Her home that night; the nord had brought a companion: a kinsman, whose slick black hair shone in the torchlight. He was not of the city, But She didn't care; She wasted no time in seducing the young, handsome man—_

—who was he—

_—the black-haired nord overpowered Her at Her highest point of pleasure, at the moment when She was ready to come, and for the second time in Her life She felt a stinging sensation in Her neck—_

The pain in Malys' face reached a crescendo—it felt as though a battleaxe was cleaving through her head, from the top of her brow to the bottom of her lip—it traveled to her neck, where the bites had once been, enveloping them—

_—She was unpleasantly roused from Her sleep by all manner of weapons in the hands of dozens of people; every one was pointed at Her, and every face flashed with hatred—_

—face—

_—"Go back under the ash where you belong!"—_

—She had to look beyond the emotion—beyond the fury and anger distorting them—she needed to see the _face_ —

_—"Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut!"—_

—they were blending together too quickly for Her eyes to tell them apart—until she saw one, turned away from Her, moving against the rising tide of the furious crowds—a familiar shock of short raven hair, shrouded in the night—

_—"Gonna run you through like a pig on a spit, filthy elf!"—_

— _turn around_ , thought a part of Her mind; _turn around, let Me see who you are_ —

_—How long She ran, She did not know; Her legs carried her out of the slums, out of the city, and westward along the frozen River White, all the way to Lake Yorgrim—_

—some featureless citizen waved a torch, and the face of the man was suddenly thrown into sharp relief—the pain refused to fade away, but she accepted it, endured it, all the while willing herself to see the truth—

—and there it was.

The same black hair.

The same black beard.

The same burning eyes.

The same gleaming fangs.

The same twisted, sinister smirk—

_—only then did she stop to catch her breath, only when the signs and sounds of the angry mob had faded away to nothing—_

But the faces had not faded with them—and this one, more than all the others, had now crystallized in Her mind's eye. The face that had eluded Her for nearly two hundred years had resurfaced once again, seared into her very being as if by a white-hot brand.

At long last, the mind and memory of Mistress Malys—once Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu—was finally complete.

* * *

**_"YOU!"_ **

Her screech echoed throughout the hall—and before anyone could react, the Dunmer's world became a giant blur. She had only scant memories of leaping over the balustrade, straight for the man whose face had been erased in the turmoil of that night in Windhelm—the man that had changed Her life forever—

The high elf she'd just left in the dust was shouting in panic—"Feran! Garan! _Stop her!_ "—but She did not heed this, either. She did not care how many vampires were down there, whether it was six or six hundred.

They were all in Her way.

Suddenly, She noticed—out of the corner of Her eye—two Dunmer men, one with bright red hair tied back in a ponytail, another with sleek black hair much like _his_ , though less on the face, were rushing for Her like black shadows on the wind—

Mistress Malys suddenly growled—they weren't rushing for Her; they were trying to _beat_ Her to _him_ —

The two dark elves alighted either side of Her quarry at exactly the same moment as She did. For only an instant, the four of them were separated by less than a foot of space. Then, that instant passed, and with a scream of fury, Malys lashed out with Her fist, intending to rip _his_ head off—tear into _his_ flesh, paint the court with _his_ blood—

—only to be restrained by the two vampires either side. Two arms bound Her at the torso, and another restrained each arm. So great was their strength that She could not resist, even in Her maddened state—but even now, Her fury was rapidly evolving into rising panic. For she was only a fledgling, and had just attacked a vampire who'd been undead for longer than most civilizations of Tamriel had existed.

She could do nothing but wait for the blow to fall—but damned if She wouldn't get one last word in edgewise.

"Do you have even the _faintest_ idea of what you did to Me?!" She hissed in fury at the source of two centuries' worth of misfortune. "Do you know what sort of _hell_ you put Me through?!"

"I would hardly call it hell." The man's voice was smooth and calm, in spite of the recent attempt on his life; he hadn't even dropped the goblet he'd expertly balanced in his fingers, let alone moved to defend himself. "To the contrary, it is a blessing—one that you and I have the luxury of sharing. Well," he amended, "perhaps not _entirely_."

He took a sip from the goblet, wiping his reddened lips on a pristine white cloth that the Altmer vampire had promptly presented him. "You've truly become quite the extraordinary being … Malys Aryon."

Malys wasted no time in spitting on his face. "You don't have any right to call Me that name," stormed the Dunmer. "You will address Me as _Mistress_ Malys!"

"And you will address _me_ as _Lord Harkon!_ " bellowed the man, raising his voice for the first time. His name echoed off the stone as if a dozen of him were shouting his name in response, hammering it into Malys' mind like so many wooden stakes. "If you want to live one second longer, my dear, I suggest you _know your place_."

Mistress Malys, unable to attack, concentrated every last ounce of cold fury She had for this man, Harkon, into Her eyes. She stared at him, wishing She could blast his smug face into a thousand shards of ice with her gaze alone.

Carmilla chose that moment to interfere in the tense moment. "Would someone please tell me what's going on here?" she demanded. "Why do you two have it out for each other?"

"I already told you how I came to be, Carmilla," snarled Malys. "You knew I was part Volkihar, that I used to be Quarra. You knew _that_ side of me came from an Ashlander I met during the Red Year. But the Volkihar side … "

She barely heard Herself trail off here; a sudden thought sprang into Her mind—

_" … you won't ever have to see my face or my family again … "_

" _You_ knew from the beginning," Malys realized, tearing Her gaze from Harkon at last to settle on her new target for the fury She felt. "You could sense his blood inside me. Isn't that right … _Serana_?!"

The vampire looked smaller than ever as she shrank back against the stones. Her eyes were not meeting anyone else's—and certainly not the Dunmer's.

"I warned you, Malys," she whispered forlornly. "I gave you the chance to go your own way. You could have lived in peace the rest of your un-life—you could have been happier not knowing that my father made you what you are. It was entirely your choice to refuse."

"And I for one am glad she did not," Harkon chuckled. He snapped his fingers, and the two Dunmer holding Malys finally released Her—though not without one last gesture of hostility; they threw her from Harkon so fiercely that She nearly missed colliding with a Redguard dining on what looked like bloodied human flesh.

"The happy little family, reunited at last!" Harkon went on, throwing his hands wide. "Ah, if only your traitor mother were here, Serana. I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike."

Mistress Malys—too desperate to find some other object to distract her from Harkon's face—was too absorbed in the macabre _décor_ of the hall to notice how Serana flinched at these words.

The vampire lord, meanwhile, had turned to Carmilla. "Now, then. Two of you I already know as my own blood. But you alone are not familiar to me. What is your name?"

"Carmilla Anglinius." The Imperial introduced herself brusquely. "I was the one who found your daughter."

_We both found her_ , Malys thought with some irritation—although, to be fair, it had been Carmilla who had forced Serana's stone tomb open in the first place.

"One of the Order?" Harkon inquired. "How … _nice_. Well, then, you have my gratitude for Serana's safe return."

It could not have been plainer that he was not gratified in the slightest, Malys knew. She had seen the way his nostrils had flared at the first sight of the Cyrodiil vampire. Harkon clearly did not like the fact that a supposedly inferior breed of bloodsucker had been successful in retrieving his Elder Scroll.

And that was the other thing, Malys thought. It sounded as though he was more concerned about that Scroll than his own daughter. Considering Serana had been locked away since before an Empire of Tamriel had ever existed, one would think he would go to any length imaginable to bring her back.

She frowned. Something wasn't adding up here. But Harkon was speaking again, and She brought Herself back to reality to listen to what he had to say.

"Such a service demands an equal reward, I believe," the vampire went on, "and there is only one gift I have that is equal to not only my daughter, but the Elder Scroll she carries as well."

Carmilla's eyes narrowed. "And that would be?"

"My blood." Harkon smiled, as if his answer was the most obvious in the world. "Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again."

Malys nearly forgot about her distaste for Harkon when he heard his reply. _You will walk as a lion among sheep …_ Had this, then, been the source of her power—why the magic She'd displayed in times past, that strange ability to tear souls from the vessels that carried them, was unique even among other vampires?

Carmilla, for her part, remained very still—though a small smile was playing across her mouth. "I don't need blood to make me strong," she said. "I just need a face."

And as the last word fell from her lips, her tattoo began to fade, and she began to transform once again. Her height stayed roughly the same, although her hair was shrinking, darkening to a very familiar shade of black …

Whispers arose through the hall, and several vampires pointed excitedly. Mistress Malys, on the other hand, could not resist a shudder as a second Harkon took shape before Her eyes.

"The Order didn't like my methods," continued Carmilla in the man's own voice, "or my abilities. I deemed them frightened and weak. So I first chance I got, I jumped ship and made for Skyrim."

The real Harkon, for his part, remained unfazed by the display of power. "Hoping to get in my good graces, no doubt," he responded, "by finding Serana."

He suddenly smiled—one of the smallest yet _coldest_ smiles Mistress Malys had ever laid eyes upon. " _You're_ one to keep an eye on for sure," Harkon added. "Having a vampire like you in my court could very well tip the balance of power in our favor."

It was Carmilla's turn to smile now. "That's the plan. _But_." The smile had vanished as suddenly as a candle being blown out by the wind; as Carmilla began to shift back into her initial form, her eyes—even the milky-white left one—were gleaming in a way that Malys didn't like at all.

"As I said," Carmilla went on, "I don't need your blood to make me strong. I don't need your gift—but _she_ might."

She nodded over at Malys, and the Dunmer suddenly felt the eyes of every vampire in the room trained on Her.

"M-Me?" She stammered at Carmilla, not expecting this turn of events. "I've already got _his_ blood," She said, gesturing to Harkon without daring to look at him, "and _that_ time, you didn't give me any choice."

"Perhaps not," said Harkon, "but you are still diseased. Whatever blood of the Quarra yet remains inside you is strong, but false." He smiled in a truly sickening way. "You'll find mine to be _stronger_ by far."

Perhaps sensing the lecherous tone that had slithered into Harkon's words, Carmilla now stepped forward. "One last thing—Malys and I are a package deal," she declared. " _She_ gets your blood, but _I_ get the spot on your court. Something tells me she doesn't want it anyway," she added with a sniff, her eyes flicking to Malys dismissively.

The hybrid vampire was rooted to the floor in shock. So this was what Carmilla had been trying to do: she'd renounced her family, fallen in league with Vaermina, murdered her own kind, and gone out all the way to Skyrim to recover Serana—all to join forces with the Volkihar?

But even as she looked at the changeling, Malys doubted that was the crux of it. This Imperial was a born schemer, She knew—someone who could never be satisfied with how things _were_ , only with how they _would be_. Someone like her would use everything at her disposal—and everyone who got in her way—to get what she wanted.

The only question for Malys was: _what was it that she truly, deeply wanted?_

Harkon, meanwhile, had been just as deep in thought. Evidently he was deciding whether Carmilla would shape up to be some kind of threat to his position. "Very well," he eventually said. "Do you still need convincing, Malys? Then _behold!_ "

Malys whirled around at him just in time to see Harkon hunched over before Her, as if he was about to be sick on the carpet. But he was far from it: Harkon was _transforming_ ; a reddish-black substance was leaking out from every pore in his skin and consuming his body. There was a horrible crunching noise, like hundreds of bones being ripped to shreds.

Suddenly, two vast shapes burst from Harkon's back: great leathery wings that carried the wriggling mass of blood and shadow aloft. The dark slime began to seep back into Harkon, revealing the form that lay underneath.

Had Malys not previously witnessed a glimpse of this power in the Pale, when Serana had bodily lifted Her with her magic, She might have screamed at the horror before Her—though seeing the effect applied over one's whole body, rather than just an arm, was still more than enough to make Her recoil in disgust.

The monster stood eight feet tall—bigger than even most Orcs—with a brutish, elongated head that looked like a dog's, but with all the fur and skin torn off, and stone-gray skin that gleamed in the torchlight. So, too, gleamed ten clawed fingers and toes that looked like they could shred steel to ribbons. The eyes, meanwhile, were dark and piercing, with no whites to them at all—just two beady points of infinite darkness.

« _This is the power that I offer!_ » Harkon's voice hissed—though his lips, bursting with long white fangs, did not move. And yet, the words he spoke echoed deep inside Malys' mind and body.

_Telepathy_ , She instinctively realized.

« _Make your choice,_ » Harkon pressured her. « _Take my blood, or I shall take yours—just as I took you, those many years ago._ »

Malys had never heard of any vampire having the capacity to transform their body into something so monstrous—not even one of the Volkihar. Was Harkon like Carmilla, then? Was this power, and Serana's as well, some gift from the Daedra, gained through the spilling of untold innocent blood? Or did She simply have more to learn about the ways of the vampire that She realized?

_Take my blood …_

_… just as I took you._

Slowly, as Harkon's words began to echo in Her mind, Mistress Malys began to form a plan in Her head. It would take time, She knew. But there was a way that She could take Harkon's blood—and then some.

There was, in fact, only the _one_ way.

Malys smiled, feeling slightly reckless in spite of Her surroundings. "All right," She said. "I'll have your blood."

Harkon bared his fangs. « _Then be still!_ »

In the next second that followed, Malys' thoughts went to the promise She had given to a pair of mages at Winterhold, before She had left for Morthal. At the time, She had hoped that She would see them again—but times, unfortunately, had a way of changing in ways no one could ever account for.

_I'm sorry_ , Malys thought, as Harkon suddenly tensed. _I guess I won't be having that drink with you after all._

Harkon never seemed to move. In the next instant, he was nothing but black lightning, darting for Malys with his fanged mouth open wide. There was a crunching of bone, a spatter of blood—yet somehow, Mistress Malys remained standing still.

Then came the _pain_.

* * *

The right eye of Carmilla Anglinius gave only the briefest of dispassionate glances in the direction of Mistress Malys as she fell to the floor, writhing and screaming in agony. The Imperial's attention was focused elsewhere.

"What if she doesn't survive?" Carmilla asked, her gaze now flicking in Harkon's direction. The vampire lord had resumed his human form within the space of a second, and wiped his bloodstained mouth once more.

Harkon did not even look at Malys as he cleaned himself up, and did not bat an eye even as an especially earsplitting shriek rattled the silverware on the tables. "I believe she will _choose_ to," he said with a nonchalant shrug.

A shadow suddenly fell over his face. "We all did, in the end."

Carmilla understood; vampires believed survival was of paramount importance; nothing else mattered in their mind. From the moment these creatures were first turned to walk the path of the undead, they were forced to spend every waking moment consuming the lives of others, simply to prolong their own. The thought made Carmilla wonder just how many lives vampires like Serana and Harkon, longer-lived than entire _Empires_ , had claimed in their days.

Another scream from Mistress Malys brought her back to reality, and she forced herself to listen to Harkon, who was speaking to some of his court. "Vingalmo, Orthjolf," he was saying, "take her to the Cathedral. Let us rid the hall of this … irksome noise."

The Altmer from before, along with a grizzled, red-haired Nord, hoisted the still-screaming Malys like a sack of grain. Carmilla noticed the look that passed between them. She'd seen it plenty of times in Cyrodiil, among scheming politicians who served only themselves, masking thoughts of eliminating all the competition in their way.

Such thoughts were not, she reflected, entirely unlike her own. _They'll have to be watched_.

"In the meantime, _lady of the Order_ ," Harkon went on, "I have a task for you that you might particularly enjoy. It will take time to implement and carry out, but I think you'll find it most suited to a vampire with your … _talents_."

The disdain in his voice did not escape the Imperial either. But those in the Order were just as capable at scheming as any of Cyrodiil's Elder Council—let alone the court of an elder vampire—and beneath the thousand or more faces of Carmilla Anglinius lay the mind who'd forgotten more about intrigue than most mortals would ever know.

And so, the changeling smiled. "What did you have in mind?"

* * *

_To be continued …_


End file.
